A Little Pilgrim by Margaret Oliphant Wilson, Fiction, Literary, Religious

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She had been talking of dying only the evening before, with a friend, and had described her own sensations after a long illness when she had been at the point of death. I suppose, she said, that I was as nearly gone as anyone ever was to come back again. There was no pain in it, only a sense of sinking down, down – through the bed as if nothing could hold me or give me support enough – but no pain. And then they had spoken of another friend in the same circumstances, who also had come back from the very verge and who described her sensations as those of one floating upon a summer sea without pain or suffering, in a lovely nook of the Mediterranean, blue as the sky. These soft and soothing images of the passage which all men dread had been talked over with low voices, yet with smiles and a grateful sense that the warm precincts of the cheerful day were once more familiar to both. And very cheerfully she went to rest that night, talking of what was to be done on the morrow, and fell asleep sweetly in her little room, with its shaded light and curtained window, and little pictures on the dim walls.