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 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