By Edith Wharton
IFor hours she had lain in a kind of gentle torpor， not unlikethat sweet lassitude which masters one in the hush of amidsummer noon， when the heat seems to have silenced thevery birds and insects， and lying sunk in the tasselled meadowgrasses，one looks up through a level roofing of maple-leavesat the vast shadowless， and unsuggestive blue. Now and then，at ever-lengthening intervals， a flash of pain darted throughher， like the ripple of sheet-lightning across such a midsummersky； but it was too transitory to shake her stupor， that calm，delicious， bottomless stupor into which she felt herself sinkingmore and more deeply， without a disturbing impulse ofresistance， an effort of reattachment to the vanishing edges ofconsciousness.
The resistance， the effort， had known their hour of violence；but now they were at an end. Through her mind， long harriedby grotesque visions， fragmentary images of the life that shewas leaving， tormenting lines of verse， obstinate presentmentsof pictures once beheld， indistinct impressions of rivers，towers， and cupolas， gathered in the length of journeys halfforgotten—through her mind there now only moved a fewprimal sensations of colorless well-being； a vague satisfactionin the thought that she had swallowed her noxious last draughtof medicine... and that she should never again hear thecreaking of her husband’s boots—those horrible boots—andthat no one would come to bother her about the next day’sdinner... or the butcher’s book....
At last even these dim sensations spent themselves in thethickening obscurity which enveloped her； a dusk now filledwith pale geometric roses， circling softly， interminably beforeher， now darkened to a uniform blue-blackness， the hue of asummer night without stars. And into this darkness she feltherself sinking， sinking， with the gentle sense of security ofone upheld from beneath. Like a tepid tide it rose around her，gliding ever higher and higher， folding in its velvety embraceher relaxed and tired body， now submerging her breast andshoulders， now creeping gradually， with soft inexorableness，over her throat to her chin， to her ears， to her mouth.... Ah， nowit was rising too high； the impulse to struggle was renewed；...
her mouth was full；... she was choking.... Help！
“It is all over，” said the nurse， drawing down the eyelidswith official composure.
The clock struck three. They remembered it afterward.
Someone opened the window and let in a blast of that strange，neutral air which walks the earth between darkness and dawn；someone else led the husband into another room. He walkedvaguely， like a blind man， on his creaking boots.
II
She stood， as it seemed， on a threshold， yet no tangiblegateway was in front of her. Only a wide vista of light， mildyet penetrating as the gathered glimmer of innumerable stars，expanded gradually before her eyes， in blissful contrast to thecavernous darkness from which she had of late emerged.
She stepped forward， not frightened， but hesitating， andas her eyes began to grow more familiar with the meltingdepths of light about her， she distinguished the outlines ofa landscape， at first swimming in the opaline uncertainty ofShelley’s vaporous creations， then gradually resolved intodistincter shape—the vast unrolling of a sunlit plain， aerialforms of mountains， and presently the silver crescent of ariver in the valley， and a blue stencilling of trees along itscurve—something suggestive in its ineffable hue of an azurebackground of Leonardo’s， strange， enchanting， mysterious，leading on the eye and the imagination into regions of fabulousdelight. As she gazed， her heart beat with a soft and rapturoussurprise； so exquisite a promise she read in the summons ofthat hyaline distance.
“And so death is not the end after all，” in sheer gladness sheheard herself exclaiming aloud. “I always knew that it couldn’tbe. I believed in Darwin， of course. I do still； but then Darwinhimself said that he wasn’t sure about the soul—at least， Ithink he did—and Wallace was a spiritualist； and then therewas St. George Mivart—”
Her gaze lost itself in the ethereal remoteness of the mountains.
“How beautiful！ How satisfying！” she murmured. “Perhapsnow I shall really know what it is to live.”
As she spoke she felt a sudden thickening of her heart-beats，and looking up she was aware that before her stood the Spiritof Life.
“Have you never really known what it is to live？” the Spiritof Life asked her.
“I have never known，” she replied， “that fulness of lifewhich we all feel ourselves capable of knowing； though mylife has not been without scattered hints of it， like the scent ofearth which comes to one sometimes far out at sea.”
“And what do you call the fulness of life？” the Spirit askedagain.
“Oh， I can’t tell you， if you don’t know，” she said， almostreproachfully. “Many words are supposed to define it—loveand sympathy are those in commonest use， but I am not evensure that they are the right ones， and so few people really knowwhat they mean.”
“You were married，” said the Spirit， “yet you did not find thefulness of life in your marriage？”
“Oh， dear， no，” she replied， with an indulgent scorn， “mymarriage was a very incomplete affair.”
“And yet you were fond of your husband？”
“You have hit upon the exact word； I was fond of him， yes，just as I was fond of my grandmother， and the house that I wasborn in， and my old nurse. Oh， I was fond of him， and we werecounted a very happy couple. But I have sometimes thoughtthat a woman’s nature is like a great house full of rooms：
