impulsive boyish way, would, with eager demonstrative affection,
throw his arm round his neck, or take his hand. The tears gather in
my eyes as I write, when I recall a few words of his a few days
before he died, when he called me to him. It was after one of those
terrible paroxysms of pain. He was very white and feeble, but
smiling. He took my hand, and said, "What a wonderful thing it is
that pain takes away one's power of thinking of anything except
people. It hurries one away, somewhere, deep, deep down; yet one can
bear to touch the bottom. But when loving anyone carries one away,
one goes down deeper and deeper, and yet feels that there is a
fathomless gulf beyond."