She took it down and opened
it, casually, at the title page. And there, in fine print beneath
the title, she read:
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, Only
a signal shewn, and a distant voice in the darkness; So, on the
ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a
voice--then darkness again, and a silence.
Standing there in the closet door, Missy read the stanza a second
time--a third. And, back again at her work, fingers dawdled while
eyes took on a dreamy, preoccupied expression. For phrases were
still flitting through her head: "we pass and speak one another" . .
. "then darkness again, and a silence" . . .
Very far away it took you--very far, right out on the vast, surging,
mysterious sea of Life!
The sea of Life!. . . People, like ships, always meeting one
another--only a look and a voice--and then passing on into the
silence. . .
Oh, that was an idea! Not just a shallow, sentimental pretense, but
a real idea, "deep," stirring and fine. What a glorious Valedictory
that would make!
And presently, when she was summoned to supper, she felt no desire
to talk; it was so pleasant just to listen to those phrases faintly
and suggestively resounding.
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