CHAPTER X--ART THOU AFRAID HIS POWER SHALL FAIL ?.
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For years I had been trying to prepare myself for my mother's death, trying to foresee how she would die, seeing myself when she was dead.
Even then I knew it was a vain thing I did, but I am sure there was no morbidness in it.

I hoped I should be with her at the end, not as the one she looked at last but as him from whom she would turn only to look upon her best-beloved, not my arm but my sister's should be round her when she died, not my hand but my sister's should close her eyes.

I knew that I might reach her too late; I saw myself open a door where there was none to greet me, and go up the old stair into the old room.

But what I did not foresee was that which happened.

I little thought it could come about that I should climb the old stair, and pass the door beyond which my mother lay dead, and enter another room first, and go on my knees there.
My mother's favourite paraphrase is one known in our house as David's because it was the last he learned to repeat.