longer blinded; she saw: she saw that it could never have been . . .
Yet she felt that they had—both of them—lived the illusion—both of them—for a little while . . .
And was nothing left of it?
Now that the long dreary days of sadness were drawing on, she saw: she saw that there was indeed something left, that a ray of light remained in her small soul, which had only been able to live like that, very late; for she saw that, in spite of all her repining, there was still gratitude . . .
Yes, she was grateful, for she had lived, even though everything had been illusion, the late blossoming of ephemeral dream flowers . . .
And now—when she felt that strange question rise in her soul: is this life, this futile, endless round, or is there . . . is there anything else? When she felt that bewildering, passionate doubt—then she was conscious, deep down in her heart, with a throb of gratitude, that there was something else . . .
Illusion, yes, only illusion, without which there is no life. . .
THE END
