It was a leaden afternoon, the dull rain-clouds rested close to the roofs
of the houses, and the little street was silent and deserted. Now and then
a gust of wind eddying round caught up the dried leaves, whirled them
hither and thither under the trees, and dropped them again into the gutter;
then all was quiet. She lay looking out.
Presently the bell of the church began to toll, and up the village street
came a long procession. They were carrying an old man to his last resting-
place. She followed them with her eyes till they turned in among the trees
at the gate.
"Who was that?" she asked.
"An old man," he answered, "a very old man; they say he was ninety-four;
but his name I do not know."
She mused a while, looking out with fixed eyes.
"That is why the bell rang so cheerfully," she said. "When the old die it
is well; they have had their time. It is when the young die that the bells
weep drops of blood."
"But the old love life?" he said; for it was sweet to hear her speak.
She raised herself on her elbow.
"They love life, they do not want to die," she answered, "but what of that?
They have had their time. They knew that a man's life is three-score years
and ten; they should have made their plans accordingly!
"But the young," she said, "the young, cut down, cruelly, when they have
not seen, when they have not known--when they have not found--it is for
them that the bells weep blood.
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