The loss, the evanishment, the ceasing, were incontrovertible--the only incontrovertible things: she was sure of them: could she be sure of anything else?
How could she?
She had not seen Christ rise; she had never looked upon one of the dead; never heard a voice from the other bank; had received no certain testimony.

These were not her thoughts; she was too weary to think; they were but the thoughts that steamed up in her, and went floating about before her; she looked on them calmly, coldly, as they came, and passed, or remained--saw them with indifference--there they were, and she could not help it--weariedly, believing none of them, unable to cope with and dispel them, hardly affected by their presence, save with a sense of dreariness and loneliness and wretched company.

At last she fell asleep, and in a moment was dreaming diligently.

This was her dream, as nearly as she could recall it, when she came to herself after waking from it with a cry.
She was one of a large company at a house where she had never been before--a beautiful house with a large garden behind.

It was a summer night, and the guests were wandering in and out at will, and through house and garden, amid lovely things of all colors and odors.