Augusta Huiell Seaman

“ On occasions innumerable had she “sat up” with a stricken friend or neighbor, watching while the flame of vitality flickered out. Death was very familiar to Priscilla Dunscomb.
At the stroke of the clock a faint, scarcely perceptible tremor quivered through the form on the bed. Almost involuntarily she bent forward, her hands clasped on her knees, to watch the struggle more closely. Some deep instinct warned her that there would be a moment of consciousness before the end. She was curious to see just what that moment would disclose. With steady intensity she regarded the deathlike mask. ”

“ Dr. Brewster had the good taste not to condole with Priscilla Dunscomb. He knew—all the village knew, for that matter—the incompatibility of those two ill-mated lives, the twenty years of slavery to the demands of a man who had crushed every atom of joy out of Priscilla Dunscomb’s existence. And Priscilla inwardly rejoiced that the doctor could not know how madly thankful she was to be alone when the great moment arrived.
She recognized absolutely no fear of death, experienced no physical shrinking at the nearness of the great mystery. ”

“ In that moment something broke within Priscilla Dunscomb—something hard, icy. and unforgiving that had bound her in its iron grasp for twenty long years! The man before her appeared no longer the hateful being who had embittered her life. He was weak, he was helpless, he was less than a child in every faculty; he was dying! A great, pitying tenderness swept over her, instantly augmented by a deep, soul-scorching terror. She slipped to her knees by the bedside in an ecstasy of unwonted prayer. ”