I shirk not. I long for work. I pant for a life full of striving. I am no coward, to shrink before the rugged rush of the storm, nor even quail before the awful shadow of the Veil. But hearken, O Death! Is not this my life hard enough,--is not that dull land that stretches its sneering web about me cold enough,--is not all the world beyond these four little walls pitiless enough, but that thou must needs enter here,--thou, O Death?