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it--as the others do--and the inside of it--which they do not. You have
seen our whole voyage. You have seen us go to sea, a cloud of sail--and
the flag at the peak; and you see us now, chartless, adrift--derelicts;
battered, water-logged, our sails a ruck of rags, our pride gone. For it
is gone. And there is nothing in its place. The vanity of life was all
we had, and there is no more vanity left in us. We are even ashamed of
that we had; ashamed that we trusted the promises of life and builded
high--to come to this!
I did know that Susy was part of us; I did not know that she could go
away; I did not know that she could go away, and take our lives with
her, yet leave our dull bodies behind. And I did not know what she was.
To me she was but treasure in the bank; the amount known, the need
to look at it daily, handle it, weigh it, count it, realize it, not
necessary; and now that I would do it, it is too late; they tell me
it is not there, has vanished away in a night, the bank is broken, my
fortune is gone, I am a pauper. How am I to comprehend this? How am I to
have it? Why am I robbed, and who is benefited?
Ah, well, Susy died at home. She had that privilege. Her dying eyes
rested upon nothing that was strange to them, but only upon things which
they had known and loved always and which had made her young years
glad;
and she had you, and Sue, and Katy, and John, and Ellen. This was happy
fortune--I am thankful that it was vouchsafed to her. If she had died
in another house-well, I think I could not have borne that. To us, our
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