There could be no suffering here; who could cry here, who could be sorrowful, who could die ?...

Here a new train of thought forced itself upon her.

She was still so young, and yet she was as familiar with the idea of death as she was with life; for whenever she had happened to tell any minister of her creed that she was an orphan and a slave, and deeply sad and sorrowful, the joys of eternity in Paradise had always been described to her for her consolation, and it was in hopes of Heaven that her visionary nature found such a modicum of comfort as might suffice to keep the young artist-soul from despair.

And now it struck her that it must be hard, very hard to die, in the midst of all this splendor.

Living here must be a foretaste of the joys of Paradise--and in the next world, among the angels of Heaven, in the presence of the Saviour--would it not be a thousand times more beautiful even than this?
She shuddered, for, sojourning here, she was no longer to be counted as one of the poor and humble sufferers to whom Christ had promised the Kingdom of Heaven--here she was one of the rich, who had nothing to hope for after death.
She pushed the peaches away with a feeling of oppression, and closed her eyes that she might no longer see all these perishable splendors and sinful works of the heathen, which pandered only to the senses.