It would be interesting to know the end, but it's not so important as to know that I am no better--only a little wiser in certain ways--than yesterday's murderer.

Living under the perfect plan of a perfect Creator, I need not trouble about hidden details when so many not hidden are more vital.

When, in some far-off future, we learn to live here as fully and beautifully as we have power to, I doubt not that in the natural ways of growth we shall learn more of this detail of life we call 'death'-- but I can imagine nothing of less consequence to one who has faith.
"I saw a stanza the other day that tells it well: "'We know not whence is life, nor whither death, Know not the Power that circumscribes our breath.
But yet we do not fear; what made us men, What gave us love, shall we not trust again ?'" While quoting the lines his eyes had been straight ahead, absently dwelling upon the space between the slightly parted doors that gave into the next room.

But even as he spoke, the last line faltered and halted.
His glance slowly stiffened out of widening eyes to the face it had caught there--a face new, strange, mesmeric, that all at once enchained him soul and body.

With a splendid, reckless might it assailed him--left him dazed, deaf, speechless.
It was the face of Nancy, for the first time all its guards down.