Section 213. THE DEATH OF LITTLE NELL.
Reading edition
She was dead. No sleep (S. 27, N. 7) so beautiful and calm, so free from trace[1] of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed[2] a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winterberries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favour. “When I die, put near me something[3] that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always.” These were her words.
She was dead. Dear (S. 10, N. 2), gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird—a poor, slight thing[4], the pressure of the finger would have crushed—was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress[5] was mute and motionless for ever! Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues? All gone[6]. Sorrow was dead, indeed in her[7]; but peace and perfect happiness were born—imaged in her tranquil beauty and (S. 10, N. 9) profound repose.
And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change[8]. Yes, the old fireside[9] had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed like a dream through haunts of misery and care—at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace-fire upon the cold wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy[10], there had been the same mild and loving look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty after death.—Charles Dickens, “The Old Curiosity Shop.”