The gray shaggy locks of the old man and the rippling glossy waves of Phebe's brown hair mingled as they bent their heads again over the same page.
"For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: whether we live therefore or die, we are the Lord's.

For to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be Lord both of the dead and the living." "That is better than your old Socrates," said Phebe, with tears in her eyes and a faint smile playing about her lips.

"Our Lord has gone on before us, through life and death.

There is nothing we can have to bear that He has not borne." "He never had to leave a young girl like you alone in the world," answered her father.
For a moment Phebe's fingers were still, and old Marlowe looked up at her like one who has gained a miserable victory over a messenger of glad tidings.
"But He had to leave His mother, who was growing old, when the sword had pierced through her very soul," answered Phebe.

"That was a hard thing to do." The old man nodded, and his withered hands folded over each other on the open page before him.