“Therefore,” he continued, “because they renounce me, I renounce

them, being but a jealous God, and then I punish them and they say,

‘Nevertheless, not my will but thine,’ and look the other way, so that

I am not even held responsible for that, and may torture and torment

them as I will.”

“And those who do your will,” said I, “those who do it and swear

allegiance to you—what of them?”

For one moment he drew himself up, and pride more strong than I had

ever seen before passed o’er his features. Then suddenly he unbent

again and answered,—

“There is a word, a little word—a long one—with a meaning human

dictionary never yet explained to fulness, and it is ‘ingratitude.’

And yet,” he continued, “they are happy enough under my rule. I am an

indulgent monarch, even merciful; I rarely punish, and I feed them

well, and I allow them individual work. Through the countless ages that

the ball has rolled they have worked well. They carry out my directions

to the utmost letter, so that I rarely need to work on earth myself,

since they swamp it in vulgarity and mediocrity; things generated from

themselves as slaves, having no part in me. They carry out temptation

far better than ever I could do, because they understand the pigmy

minds they govern, and work themselves all round them, whereas I might

pass with a contemptuous smile, heeding and caring not.”

“Yet,” I rejoined, “you paid great attention in this church.”

“’Twas a full-dress rehearsal,” he said. “Now they will go to earth,

and whisper in the minds of church-goers. I came unexpectedly to see if

all was right, and, as you see, it was so.”

As he spoke the red light which until now had spread all about

vanished, and in its place a blue one rose and the scene changed to a

public hall having a crowded audience and orators.

“This is a socialistic meeting,” Plucritus said softly. “A kind of

tribune such as they had in the French Revolution. They believe in

Equality, Fraternity and Liberty. A rotten trinity, as you see, steeped

in truth.”

He laughed.

“Look at that gentleman in the middle,” he continued. “They are trying

to teach him that he is no better than themselves, and because he

is a dull pupil they have got worked up to proving him lower than

themselves, which sends the see-saw up the other way, and again

destroys the theory. For my part, I always find the French Revolution

and movements like it exceedingly amusing. It is pitting devils’ pride

against the pride of gods. But that is very badly expressed, and

things badly put are stupid lies. I must begin again. It is like—let

me see—it is like dark scum rising against fair scum. Both are bad,

both rotten, but the see-saw is uneven. The devils, who really favour

both sides equally, have a funny trick of scampering from side to

side occasionally, but for the most part they sit on the dark area

and let the fair one rise—it makes more envies and dissimulation.

Listen to that man speaking. It is the old cry ‘_A bas!_’ Down

with everything—except himself and those like him. If you let him

he will cry ‘Down! down!’ till only he is up. Then the chorus starts

against him, and the devils sing the Marseillaise as they escort his

soul to hell. He it is who strikes at royalty from the back, or side,

or front, and makes martyrs and heroes of whom he sought to kill. His

reasoning is at fault; he sends the see-saw higher up once more, and

only lands himself in hell. His is a bad policy, a very poor, shriveled

kind of thing, but it suits him. Let every man have perfect liberty,

even to kill. Let every man satisfy his inclinations to the top of his

bent. Let every man worship himself and know none other, and our slaves

will fatten on that they let walk over them whilst it lived.”

I was so intent on hearing him that I paid little heed to the scene

below, and in a little while it changed.

Before us was a magnificent throne-room, draped in gold, and purple,

and scarlet, and everything was ready as for a grand reception.

The tall doors swung open and tall footmen stood aside to let an

innumerable swarm of pigmies enter. Each was striving with his

neighbour and trying to enter first, and so they rushed helter-skelter,

and screaming in wild fury towards the throne. The first to get upon

the lower step was a man, but a woman going by leaps and bounds

outreached him. Then a mad onrush brought many to the third step all

together. They strove, and pushed, and fought, and tore, and the woman

who had done so well got thrust right back. But another woman, seizing

the opportunity, made a sudden dive—and yes, she was seated on the

throne, right in the very centre. On this there was a sudden silence,

and instead of pushing forward they began pushing backward, trying to

push each other off the steps and into line.

“I’m first,” shouted one.

“I’m second,” cried another.

“No. I am.”

But with much arguing and hard blows, in which the weaker always were

pushed back, they came to silent order.

Then she who sat upon the throne turned to the first man on the right

and said, in a very matter-of-fact tone,—

“Now make haste with the ointment. I only want a little on my head. If

you let it run down my back I’ll slap your face.”

So the ointment was brought, and such a threat naturally made him

careful. He certainly let two drops fall on to her shoulder, but she

only wriggled and muttered something about a “clumsy fool.”

Presently they all went out backward, as the tall footman announced

that there was to be a reception later, to which all were invited who

had lived fairly respectable lives in the past, for this was the next

best thing to a sacrament; indeed, much better, for here they saw, and

there they didn’t.

Last of all the queen went out, and the last six people on either side

stayed behind and followed her.

Once more we were left alone, but my attention was attracted by hearing

a whimper near me. On looking round I saw the woman who had just missed

the throne. Plucritus looked as well. And when he saw her he called

out, “What’s the matter?”

“She’s got my place, and it isn’t fair.”

“You should have made more haste.”

“I did. But they pulled me back.”

“Well, never mind. You got there last time, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” And she fell to crying louder.

“Cheer up,” said he, patting her head. “Go and get dressed and you

shall be the prettiest.”

At this she dried her eyes.

“Will the queen be jealous of me?”

“Yes, if you like.”

“Will her husband fall in love with me?”

He laughed. “Much will have more,” he returned.

By his tone she took it for granted that she should have her way, and

skipped about in glee, and kissed his hand just as a little dog might

lick it, and gambolled off.

“You don’t keep up much state,” I remarked to him.

“We don’t need to—we are, what do you call it? Almighty—that’s the

word.”

In an incredibly short time the doors were once again flung open and

powdered footmen walked about the chamber, putting it all in readiness.

At last the queen entered, attended by her chief officers and maids of

honour.

She was most magnificently dressed, and looked herself magnificent from

human standpoint, and all her servants looked the same.

After that the reception began, and it was one of exceeding brilliancy.

Anon great stir was caused by a woman of remarkable beauty entering,

dressed so beautifully and to such advantage that quite a murmur of

comment arose.

The queen, who understood her court well, gazed round, and then she

looked towards the king, who was a mere cypher in all this grandeur,

except for his crown and the place he occupied.

But, try as the poor king would, it was only natural he should look

towards this vision that had entered. It was quite enough to set all

the courtiers looking at one another, and to make the ladies smile

behind their fans. The new-comer, however, received a very gracious

welcome, even from the queen, who remained in conversation with her for

some moments.

“Are they not all very well bred?” remarked Plucritus to me.

“Indeed, I am very much astonished. Are these really they who went out

some time ago?”

“The exact same,” he answered. “Only since then they have put on stays.

And stays are a great restraint, especially to the women. Before they

put them on they are natural, afterwards they become artificial.”

“They have not been long in preparing,” I commented.

“It was all ready before. It is simply another full-dress rehearsal.”

He closed the note-book, and once more the presence chamber vanished

and we were left in darkness.

Soon I beheld a very glorious scene arising of vast size and exquisite

beauty. In the middle a fountain played, and on either side a tree

grew in wild luxuriance, covered with purple fruit which hung in heavy

clusters.

From the fountain a broad stream of crystal ran either way, spreading

out like a sea of glass in the far distance. On either side steps of

gold led up to a crystal throne that shone by reflection like the sun

itself. Upon the throne sat the figure of a man wearing a golden crown,

surrounded by awe and majesty. His face was bright and shining.

* * * * *

_A passage omitted_

* * * * *

His hair, which shone like gold, hung in thick ringlets over his

shoulders, and his beard, of the same golden hue, flowed below his

girdle like those of the patriarchs of old. In one hand he held

the moon, and in the other a reduced facsimile of the sun, whilst

underneath his feet lightnings played, and above his head thunder.

Ranging down on either side were figures garbed in white and wearing

crowns.

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

Behind these came thousands of spirits, all carrying golden harps and

timbrels, waiting with impatience. Behind the figure on the throne a

white, misty figure stood.

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

Suddenly, at the signal given by one of those who sat upon the steps, a

perfect flood of music rose.

“Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! Magnify His name—Wonderful, Almighty,

Omnipotent, Eternal, Lords of Lords, God of Gods!

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

“Praise the Lord! for there is none like him, neither in Heaven nor

earth, Holy! Holy! Holy! Jah! Jehovah! Hallelujah!”

“Is it not deafening?” said Plucritus, laughing.

I could not laugh.

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

But the Spirit on the throne bore it with high serenity.

* * * * *

_Some passages omitted_

* * * * *

At last he rose, and as he did so fire and smoke went up around him. He

began to speak, and all fell upon the earth, covering their faces.

Thus then he spoke to them:—

“_Sons, children, and co-heirs._

“_Co-heirs with Christ and Sons of God!_

“_Upon the earth much wickedness is sown—And I repent me of my first

intent—With love I sought to raise Man from the dust—to set him high

in heaven above you all. And for that reason I have sent my Son, gotten

of me before the worlds were formed, to suffer pains and penalties

and death. But Man in boldness turned his hand aside, and nailed the

Godhead even to a tree—Forgetful of my promise and my power—I loved

my son, he was my only Son—And yet the earth I must have loved it

more—For when they spat on him I only frowned—nor interfered when

they assailed him sore—I put them in a garden with a tree—Like to

this one you see beside my throne—And this commandment stern I gave

to them—‘Eat not, lest ye be eaten’—Yet they ate. Then up I rose,

amazed thus much to find—that they my word regarded not at all—I told

them not to eat, but they would eat—Oh! What a vile unnatural sin was

theirs!—I gave them a free will as well you know—To do or not to do,

as they thought best—And if I cramped it in with one small ‘but’—who

could presume to judge my sovran will?—And when they fell I pardoned

them again—In mercy thinking on their nature frail—And spared to kill

them in my father’s power. Hoping to mould them into better shape—But

they essayed from badness unto worse, and wrung my heart with pangs

unfelt before—Till this my son, here sitting by my side—Rose and

departed to the manger’s door. Then thought I now that all things were

set square—That man would love me and esteem my son—They turned away

and thought foul scorn of him—And matters turned from badness unto

worse. Yet merciful am I, and all forgive—If they will call upon my

holy name—I will forget about my son for them—And think his death a

victory o’er the grave—Go powers omnipotent on wheels of fire—Ride to

the earth and call aloud my name—Tell them to bow before me, low with

fear—For when I come, I’ll come in a royal flame._”

Hereon he sat down and loud cries of “Hallelujah” rent the air.

“Worthy is he to be praised,” they cried.

“Tis the voice of a God who rules in equity.”

* * * * *

_Some passages omitted_

* * * * *

“Well,” said Plucritus, laughing,

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

“I must note him down in my book. He is a bad disciplinarian—he gives

them too many chances. It is too relaxing for the morals. If he’d drawn

them up pretty sharp when Adam fell he’d have spared himself a great

deal of—well, pleasure, perhaps.”

And now the scene darkened, and the whole thing began to crumble, and

the nimble demons ran hither and thither the sounds of weird and magic

music from beneath.

CHAPTER VIII

“Now,” said Plucritus, as the scene cleared, “I think it is time for

lunch. Neither of us enjoyed our breakfast, and we shall eat all the

more heartily.”

We were by this time in a large, light, comfortable room, and on

looking through the window I saw it faced on to a wide and handsome

street, so long that I was unable to tell the length of it. On either

side were mansions of great beauty, built in different styles and

material, so that the effect was most strange and interesting.

Many beautiful statues and worked columns ran down the centre, and

arched colonnades, twined with rich creepers, ran nearer to the sides.

Plucritus came and stood beside me. “It is a pity,” he observed.

“You should witness some of our convocations and assemblies. We have

a special roof designed to arch across from side to side. And it is

worked from wealth and loveliness that all the nations of the earth

could never buy. We do not meet again for some considerable time, and

you may miss the sight.”

“You think it probable I may leave you, then.”

He smiled.

“Well,” he said, “I have had a little study in medicines. I think you

are going to die.”

“That is consoling,” I remarked. “What will the transition lead me to?”

“You know best yourself,” he said.

During the repast he did not speak much; but when it was over he took

me to a smaller room, a comfortable and private little place fitted

with every luxury.

There was a fire burning there, for always in the air, despite the

many flowers that grew outside, there was a sharpness which was very

pleasant to those who could appreciate it.

He threw himself down on a sofa and I took an easy chair opposite to

him. I was tired, with that weariness and lassitude which takes the

place of bodily infirmity. After a while he took out a pipe and filled

it with a substance from a cedar box upon the mantelpiece.

“I will not offer you this,” he told me. “You would not appreciate it,

though it is far superior to any earthly thing of the same class.”

He lay back smoking in quiet contentment, and I watched him, a certain

amount of interest keeping my eyes open, otherwise I should have fallen

asleep.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked at length.

“Nothing particular. I was studying you to the best of my poor ability.”

“Do you find me very beautiful?”

“Is not the term misapplied? It would be more applicable to Vestné.”

“And Vestasian?”

“Well, perhaps so. He seemed to me a very curious combination.”

“Yes. That is his chief charm. No matter how ill-tempered I may be (and

you will have perceived I occasionally get that way), he always has

the power to convert me once again to sublimity.”

“Do you appreciate Vestasian’s wife?” I queried.

“Oh! I see. You mean that pretty creature who comes to stay with him

sometimes. Have you met her?”

“No. He simply told me of her.”

“Ah! Yes. I appreciate her very much. If I had my way I’d put her

outside the gates, to go back as best she could, where she could. That

is another peculiarity of his. If anybody else had played the trick on

him that she did he would have followed him like the avenging angel to

the end of time. But because she cries and frets and generally makes a

disturbance every time she comes down here, he invariably gives in to

her, and thinks it’s a laughing matter.”

He looked over to me and smiled.

“You should see her. She is very beautiful after a certain style. You

would like her too, for till she becomes too ill to go about she is as

merry as a bird, and as light.”

“Can she retain that lightness even in hell?” I asked.

“Why, yes. She is very deeply in love with him, so that there is

nothing particularly saintly in it. And beyond that it pays her to be

agreeable to him, because then she gets her own way at the end.”

I laughed.

“You certainly bring it down to a very matter-of-fact level,” I

remarked.

“Well, she was an arch-deceiver, but because she looked the other thing

we were all taken in. However, she did not do much good with all her

manœuvring, and I expected the next time she came down here she would

have passed me by without a word.”

“What had you done?”

“Oh, nothing. But I was mistaken, she was no different from before.

Since then she has come and gone; how much harm she does is not to be

told, but, being a philosopher, I have come to take it quietly.”

“Has she a good influence on you all, then?”

“She has no influence on anyone except Vestasian—and not much on him.

But the same applies to spirits as to mortals. No man should ever allow

himself to be governed by a woman, not in the slightest. If so, she

will drag him over the most perilous path he ever trod, whether to

Heaven or Hell.”

“What about Vestné?”

“She neither drags me back nor pulls me forward. We walk evenly

together, pace for pace.”

“Have you many cities as grand as this?” I questioned, gazing out of

the window and seeing, from where I sat, the turrets of many beautiful

buildings without.

“Oh, yes. Their name is legion, and they are all built on different

principles. It is a pity that you refuse to take medicine. I think you

would enjoy being here after a time.”

“I had as lief pass away,” I asserted. “If I am to be other than myself

I am the more content with a total dissolution.”

“And Deborah?”

“I cannot say,” I answered. “Being powerless, I am speechless.”

“You should have taken my advice and left her long ago. Or you should

have cultivated writing moral stories for young girls; it would have

been amusing.”

“I never appreciated young girls. If they are not moral without reading

moral stories, they never will be.”

“I think,” he said, after a pause, “I will write a biography of myself,

it seems to be the fashion.”

He jumped up and knocked the few ashes from the pipe into the fire.

“Do you wish to walk through the city?” he queried lazily.

“No. I have judged it from these windows.”

“Then we may prepare for home.”

* * * * *

_Several pages are here omitted._

* * * * *

When we returned it was just to be in time for dinner. I remember

Vestasian was there, and a friend of Vestné, a very simple, lovely

woman, who, I heard, had come a long distance to pay a visit.

That the evening passed off brilliantly I was well aware. For the most

part they talked on subjects of which I was entirely ignorant, yet this

was due to myself rather than any lack of kindness on their part.

Afterwards the new guest sang for us, and accompanied herself upon the

harp. She sang with exquisite taste, both in choice and expression.

Later in the evening she sent for some sketches she said she had once

taken when on a visit to earth.

One or two of them I knew. They were exquisitely done, and we all

admired them.

The evening passed quickly, and I remember Plucritus gave us a sketch

of a love scene he had just witnessed on the earth before leaving it.

It was very amusing, or he had a way of making it appear so—I cannot

quite tell which.

Vestasian stayed late, and he and Plucritus walked back through the

grounds together. I went to bed, and as I looked through the open

window I saw them standing on the bridge by the little gate deep in

conversation.

It seemed now and again as if a laugh travelled thence to the palace;

but, tired and, I may confess it, ill, I soon retired to rest.

The experiences of the day had not been happy. However they might have

amused my companion, I had not shared his feeling. It had made me think

with unavailing sorrow on the littleness of life, and I longed, even

as a prisoner cooped in some foul dungeon longs for light and air, for

some ennobling aspect from which humanity might at least be treated as

a subject somewhat higher than a jest. For myself, I had begun to think

and feel less. The sense of unreality and insecurity which had, up till

now, enveloped me was passing. I saw the shadow of Death creeping ever

nearer, and tried to fathom what my sin had been that I should thus die

in hell.

Then I smiled. I was no more a judge of my own actions than anyone

else can be, and I recognised simply that my duty was to bear without

complaint until the end.

Any form of prayer was quite beyond me. Only those who have been in

this iron kingdom have any conception how prayer is crushed in the head

of him who prays. No form of comfort could approach me, nor now did I

feel that I needed any; for life—what one terms life—had been slowly

sapped from me as the long unheeded days had passed.

Thus, half sleeping, half waking, the night went by me, and in the

morning I learnt Plucritus had returned to earth. I was not sorry.

Vestné of late had taken to leaving me alone, and I was grateful for

it. I remember in the days that followed her friend often played and

sang to me. It was the one thing I enjoyed; for the rest, time hung

heavily on my hands.

Vestasian came across every day and spent much time with us.

I can remember his kindness to me now, though I am afraid he could not

think me very thankful at the time. Then for two or three days he did

not come, and when he did I was sitting alone, the others being away.

“I have been preparing for my wife,” he said. “She comes to-morrow.”

I think I must have received this intelligence with something akin to

pleasure, because he looked pleased.

“You must come across to see us,” he suggested, “as she rarely goes

beyond the grounds. I think you will be friends,” and he looked at me

curiously in a way I neither understood nor cared to understand.

I went to bed that night more feeble than before. I dismissed the

attendant on entering the room and lay down in excessive weakness.

I gave a heavy sigh, hoping to find relief, but I found that sigh

followed sigh; it was the gasping pain of which they all complained,

though silently. Then I knew this was going to be my end, and I was

thankful I was alone, since when the pain had passed the rest would

come, by total death or change. Gazing over to the wall I saw an altar

shining, and a crucifix above. I rose from the bed. Must I go too? All

so far had done so in the cells. Each died beside the altar. And there

I went, and in great weakness stumbled forward, dying from weakness by

its crimson side.

A light fell from the crucifix, and on a sudden a wild, clear cry rang

through the stillness.

“Come! Come away—away,” and the last word tingled till it pierced

something, I think it must have been the blackness.

With a strength which could not be my own I rose and moved

unquestioning toward the door. I passed out into the silent corridor,

down the white steps to the door that led into the church. This place

I had not visited since first I came, and now in the clear white light

of night each jewelled throne and golden pillar shone like brilliant

eyes all watching me. Silently down the nave I moved toward the doors,

and through them, out onto the marble steps, away through the wooded

grounds down to the avenue by which I came—along the dark, grand road,

even unto the heavy portal which swung open silently and let me pass.

Then came the wilderness with marsh lights shining in the distance,

faint will-o’-the-wisps, which lead mortals to the awful bogs. On, on,

along the one hard track I journeyed, and the ghost-winds whistled

round me as I flew. The mighty forest flung its shadow o’er me as I

sped into its gloomy shade. But one wide track led onward, and at the

end there shone a light so clear and pure that its rays poured like

softest sunbeams into the darkness round.

END OF PART II

PART III

HEAVEN

CHAPTER I

Who ever yet rising with dawn felt not some disappointment when it died

away and left nothing but Working Day, its one unceasing gift? For

Dawn with all its freshness laughs and leaves us, caring not that it

has come at the wrong side of day, knowing well that its twin-sister,

Sunset, has beauties only for the weary-eyed and sad. We see the sun

depart and turn aside and sigh, since with the sudden twilight the

wraith of Silence rises and wraps us all in quietness and thought. But

what would be our brightness and our joy if at the end of toiling day,

jaded and world-worn, we went out to see the sun set, and behold! it

rose. A little pure surprise—a little rubbing of the eyes—a little

unexpected difference—some trivial exclamation—and our hands would

stretch toward that sun—and night be day, and day but a passing,

short-lived night henceforward. For this sun, rising above inanimate

decrees, would bear us on with it and into it, leaving no scathing

burns to mar the path it travelled, but only clear thrilling light. For

with intensest gladness we should hail this coming change—and each

strung nerve, beating like heart of love upon a heart as pure as ever

dawn of heaven’s childhood gave it, would relax, and glow with the

clearest pleasure that angels ever gave. The faded, failing, feeble

feet, aching in every little joint and bone, would find the brightness

only cooled and eased them, spurring them on, soft as those little baby

feet that pressed the peeping buttercups on a flowery lawn, to a purer

height where buttercups, if buttercups there were, would be sweeter and

more golden. And the tired spirit drooping like a fading butterfly,

crushed by some cruel, thoughtless hand, with wings all turning to

dull earth again, would rise with other strength and wings eternal,

following the healing light. The sick and tired drudge, scarce better

than a pitiable slave, bound down to earth and hardened usage, leading

a grey and lifeless life, each day more leaden than the one before,

feeling the softening rays would melt to happy tears, and leaden bars

would shine like silver, bearing no weight. The pain-bound sufferer,

feeble and sick to death, moaning in silent agony the livelong night,

fretting unnoticed through the livelong day, would for the time forget

all suffering, and in the after days have sweet balm to pour upon the

oft-returning pain, and drive it out with love’s own medicine.

For, could they feel it, all would strive afresh, with strength afresh

and youth afresh to make it theirs. Each would hold out to the other

a brother’s hand, nor mind the soil- or toil-worn palm. Each would be

gentler, firmer; stern against Sin, that gaudy, tarnished, creeping

worm, which leaves nothing but breeding corruption in its path and rots

with wily sting e’en when it appears most harmless.

Oh! that this light, this ever-shining light, this clear warm sunshine

wrought in heaven out of love, might pierce the heavy, leaden

chilliness that ever prevails. But to this grimed and hardened earth

it cannot always come, because alien weapons drive it off, and men

think because it fades away, and out of vision, it is dead.

Rather had the earth die, the sun, humanity itself, all things of

intellect and things of mind, than this sweet radiance melt. For hearts

would harden, intellects grow cold, beauty pass worm-eaten, and weary

sighs change into millstones round the feeble soul, and none would come

to raise, or calm, or cheer, since all would die and wither like a

blighted garden, that once had felt a little yet not all, and then had

faded—saddest of deaths, because it once had known.

Oh, Light! Light! Light! What would the storm-lost traveller be without

you? What lingering death of gloom must he endure! What harsh straining

after the ghastly fire-flies, that flicker and dance and then die out

before his burning eyes! What blackened leaves would be his funeral

bed—that now spring up as silvery flowers about his path—what gloomy

gurgles of the river—and hollow moanings through the tracks of pain!

If only all might feel, and see, and know, how altered would this

dreary world become! transformed to paler shade of the hereafter, no

barren landscape leading but to hell.

Then should we find no idle scoffers, nor those who sneered upon

another’s pain, no wandering disbelievers laughing coldly, nor those

who reckoned only earthly gain. But perhaps this path is hard to find;

brambles and thorns and bushes hide the road. There is no beaten track

that guides us onwards; each step is taken slowly, wearily, uncertainly

it may be, and still the light is hid.

There is a word, a curious word, called “Faith”; there is another

curious word called “Creed.” The latter forces stern belief from

childhood, the former springs by leaps and bounds above the fetters,

and laughs at that which takes its God in hand, and snips and snaps and

pats him into shape, and says to him, as if it were Almighty, “Thus

shalt thou be, thus only—a fish, a man, a calf, or jumbling trio. Bend

to our puny chains and we will worship thee.”

Oh, Creed! harsh jest of harshest Godhead, that wrapped itself

about the human brain—and wrapped in mystery shook its sides with

laughing—knowing full well its vagaries were not seen.

For Creed has soiled itself with blood and murder, with bitter strife

and false solemnity—binding itself to cruel superstition—straining

at gnats and gulping great big camels. And then when pained with

indigestion, it would at times disgorge sedition sore, and growl and

grumble to its inmost region because its ermine robe the vagrants tore.

There is one Creed, one only Creed, a thing so far above a Creed that

Creed grows pale and falters, forgetting its hard dogma learnt by rote;

that little word is “Faith,” the gift of Heaven, the only lasting thing

upon this earth.

The last Apostle spoke of Love—but was he not a little

premature?—since Love is born from Faith, none other, and without

Faith, Love is no better than a blinded God. For Love is tender and

most fragile—the sweetest sensitive plant that ever grew, that needs

care such as earth cannot give it, and when stricken by rude winds

blowing from barren lands, droops down unneeded and unheeded—a silent,

shattered, broken heart, even like Christ’s, whose fragments gathered

by the angels form in that heavenly home the purest, strongest tie.

Love is the last great prize, so sacred and so beautiful that none can

fathom it. Why therefore should we lay sacrilegious fingers on its

outer robe, and seek to drag and form within ourselves that which we

cannot truly understand?

“Love one another,” the great Teacher said, “little children, little

children.” And perhaps if that saying were locked up two hundred years,

and the word sealed in the heart and never on the lip, it would in

silent, restful darkness germinate, and break forth at last to do some

good.

We say it after him like parrots, and prate about the beauty of his

words, loading ourselves with sentiment, devoid of feeling, and then

we go away. Do we love? Do we forgive? Not in the ordinary course of

things. We live barren lives though we may have a dozen children, and

rise no higher than the soil. But let once “Faith” break forth to take

the place of hardened Creed, and the first little seed has been sown

for good, because in the train of Faith Morality will follow—and what

is it but the strong elementary ground of Love?

For, grasping at the highest, we lose the lowest, our surest

stepping-stones to higher things—as if for heaven we needed no

education, but jumped to it as children born with wings. What lie more

fraudulent was e’er invented, braying the word of Love into the infant

mind? As lief begin to teach the classics, and _make_ them learn

it at the age of five.

We teach the babies in our infant standards to pry into the agony of

Christ. What do they understand about it? The hardest lesson we cram in

at the beginning and say, “He suffered that for you and me.”

And one is sucking sweets, and one has got a marble, and some few good

ones think they understand—and little know the error they have made.

Perhaps if we left Christ out of it, and let them find by instinct what

they miss, we should have nobler men and purer women, learning by many

a fall to ask for something higher than themselves and earth.

Were they but taught morality from the cradle, and trained to esteem

their neighbour as themselves, the road to Christ would lead more

purely onward, and He Himself would be the great reward.

But no, no, we are all so wise in our own pet religion; we “hem” and

“haw” at this and that, our babies must be baptized so as they’ll go to

heaven and must be introduced post haste to God for fear they get left

out.

Surely the prayer of the serious mother for pure wisdom for herself

and her child must far outweigh the formal genuflections and harsh

screamings of the afflicted infant.

May we then pray with all true humility, like those poor prisoners

bound in hell, but we with hope, they almost lacking in it, “Give us

light—light—more light.”

CHAPTER II

To this dawn at the close of day I too had come. In weariness and

weakness I had fallen down, unable of myself to reach that which I saw

before me. I had remembrance of nothing more; I fell, and the blank

rest of sleep, or death, sank numbly on the silent path. To sleep—to

rise; to die—to live again, so came this life to me, falling in pain,

in weakness, in dull doubt, inwoven with one silver thread—the joining

link to heaven.

But what a sweet awakening! Never rose skylark in the summer air so

free of care and pain as I—every hanging weight of hell had fallen

like death’s bands, snapped by a living power. Soft, gentle, thrilling

life was round me, busy and free from every worrying thought, and

though I heard no music the very air was filled with hidden sound of

life and love and freedom, true music of the soul and surest balm.

Still, from an adjoining chamber came the dreamy hum of the busy

spinning-wheel, but because I was tired my eyes were closed, and I lay

listening to the soothing sound. I felt no wish to stir, since weakness

was being repaired by strength, which had in it nothing but life and

purity, the strongest framework ever built.

So I lay, half sleeping, half awake, till roused by a voice speaking in

the room without.

“Mother, give me a pearl, I’ve got to the ninth stitch.”

The voice awoke me to the life around. In some ways it was a child’s

voice, yet filled with such sweet wisdom and clear cadence that never

child on earth spoke like it.

The wheel stopped.

“Which is it, pink or white?”

“Pink this time. Look.”

In both voices there was a similarity, but one was fuller, richer, with

a sweetness childhood never yet could give a voice, however pure.

“When you have put it in, go once more and see if our guest has

wakened.”

“And may I take the flowers and fruit?”

I think she must have answered by a nod, for the wheel went on once

more till interrupted by the childish voice again.

“The last time I went in he was quite fast asleep. I put a lily in his

hand, but he never noticed it. Then I climbed upon the bed and kissed

his brow, but it was cold, colder than anything about here. I took

his hand and pressed it in both mine, but it was stiff and fell from

mine as if I never held it. Then I sang one of my songs, one father

taught me when I was very small, and soon I thought he looked as if he

listened; but perhaps it was only thought, because when I stooped and

whispered, ‘Did you hear?’ he answered not at all.”

The other laughed—a laugh so full of mirth and pure delight that,

forgetting, I laughed too, but being intent on their conversation they

heard not.

“Well, we cannot blame you, Sunbeam, you did your best, and failed. But

this time when you go, if he is asleep you may shake him gently, it is

time he was awake.”

Soon after I heard soft footsteps stealing to the door, and my first

notion was to close my eyes and feign sleep once more. But I recognised

that deception was perhaps a thing unknown even in trifles where

children were concerned, so I sat up, feeling no giddiness after the

long rest.

I remember the first glance she gave as she peeped round the door was

one of curiosity to see if I were still asleep, but seeing me awake she

stepped back, and then came forward hesitating, almost shyly.

Here was a miniature vision of loveliness, with a face so fair and

tender, and eyes so true and clear, that it did one good to look at

her. And so I felt, for out of pure light spirits I laughed aloud.

“Why do you laugh?” she asked, looking up with pardonable surprise to

be thus greeted after so long a silence.

“I laugh to think I had almost begun our friendship with a crime.”

“What is that?” she returned.

“I do not know. You have made me forget.”

She looked at me with evident and curious interest for some little

time, holding the flowers in one hand and in the other a dish of fruit,

till at last she observed,—

“Don’t they ever kiss each other where you come from?”

At a hint so broad I had no further excuse for not extending such a

simple salutation. So I stooped and kissed her, and lifted her up with

her various gifts beside me on the bed.

She took some of the fruit in her hand and held it to me.

“Eat this,” she bade me. “It will make you strong.”

So I ate it, and she watched me with as tender a solicitude as any

mother might have done.

“You should eat too,” I urged. But she shook her head.

“I’d rather watch you,” she remarked, “for you need it and I don’t.”

“Do you never eat for the pleasure of eating?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, sometimes. Sometimes when father comes home and we have

just finished a meal, we all begin again. And then I forget I’ve had

anything before and eat just twice as much—at least mother says so,

and she knows everything.”

“And who is your father?” I asked.

“He is my father,” she answered, glancing at me. “He carried you here

on a fearful stormy night just lately. And he was very tired, though

he is very, very strong, and mother made some food for strengthening

him, because he had not been home for a long, long time, and in the

wilderness there is very little to be had. Afterwards they went away

together, and left me here to look after you, and father said I might

sing to you and kiss you, and that would make you well again. Our

friends used to come in to watch you too, and we never left you quite

alone. Then mother came back, and she kissed me and took me on her knee

and cried a little, and I cried also because she did; and then she

kissed me again and laughed, and so did I, and she was happy, very,

very happy, and said that father was coming home soon and would be able

to stay a while.”

As she spoke her eyes shone into mine with a pure radiance.

“I love for him to come home,” she said. “I love for us all to be

together;” and suddenly she put her arms round my neck and nestled

towards me with a sigh from which even childhood could not drive all

the lingering sadness.

“Well, well,” I assured her, “he will be home soon. Think of all the

nice times you will have together.” But this form of solace was cut

short by her mother coming to the door.

She carried in her hand a steaming bowl of something which was like

milk, but this I did not notice till she brought it forward and drew

attention to it.

To behold her was in itself enough for me.

She wore a simple robe of pale soft green with no ornament, but she

needed none. A figure more brilliantly light and beautiful I never

saw, nor a face more perfect in expression and in shape. Yet I do not

think it was her beauty that ever impressed my mind, it was the tender

grace and motherly sweetness which went with her. One could not be ill

nor spiritless where such a being moved, her health and lightness were

infectious.

“Sunbeam will be happy now,” she said as she came forward.

“Chatterboxes always like companions.”

And she sat down beside us and gave the basin into my hand.

“Indeed, yes,” I went on. “In this short time I have become acquainted

with my past history from a certain fall up to the present, and that

was very interesting naturally.”

“You are looking wonderfully well after your long sleep,” she said.

“Perhaps we all need rest occasionally. I feel different. As if I had

thrown off a kind of hanging fever and were strong again.”

“When you have taken that,” she observed, indicating the bowl, “you

will feel stronger still. You will sleep again in a little while, and

after that you will be able to get up.”

Sunbeam clapped her hands.

“Why are you so happy, little mite?” I asked, for she was no higher

than a child of seven and as fragile as she was fair.

“I was thinking we should walk together in the gardens now and then,”

she replied, and this simple pleasure seemed a great delight to her.

“How long am I to be your guest?” I queried.

The mother shook her head and smiled.

“I think we shall keep you always, till you care to leave us,” she

said. “At any rate, I do not think there is any immediate prospect of

your going away.”

“I think I shall thrive better here than in Hell,” I affirmed. “I

cannot tell whether it was rapid or slow consumption I suffered from

when there.”

She gazed at me with eyes which had changed to sad sincerity.

“It was lack of all nourishment,” she declared. “It kills the strongest

and the weakest off in time. After all, death is the greatest mercy

when it comes, though at the time it seems the hardest pain.”

“You know something about it then?” I asked in some surprise. I had

thought such a fair being would have been spared such knowledge.

She laughed.

“Well, I know just a little about most things,” she said, “so perhaps I

am not altogether such a charming creature as I appear to be.”

“On the contrary, I find you much more—” And then I stopped. The word

“charming” did not suit her, and I could find no other.

“You are at a loss for a word already,” she interposed lightly. “Let

us put our heads together, Sunbeam, and think of a word to describe us

both, but it sha’n’t be ‘sympathetic,’ for that would make us pale and

interesting at once.”

“But,” I ventured, “sympathy is reckoned a great thing on the earth

just now.”

“You don’t know,” she rejoined, shaking her head. “You haven’t been

there for some time, and fashions alter quickly. For aught you know,

Tact may be dead, and she is the mother of Sympathy, and orphans rarely

thrive in your world.”

“You speak rather disrespectfully of both of them,” said I.

She looked across at me with a curious mixture of amusement and

seriousness.

“Well, my husband tells me about them sometimes, and I generally go by

what he says, for he states plain facts.”

“He is not prejudiced?”

She shook her head. “It would not do for us to be prejudiced,” she

corrected. “It is a failing of mortals, not of spirits. And, even

reckoned by the world’s standpoint, we should lose more by it than even

you do.”

By this I had given the bowl back to her, and when she had done

speaking she rose and lifted Sunbeam to the ground. “We shall leave you

to rest a little longer,” she said, “then perhaps you will join us

later.”

And they went out together and left me. With a sigh of contentment I

lay back and almost immediately fell asleep once more. When I awoke the

room was darkening, and stars were beginning to shine without.

But a soft, clear light shone from the ceiling, and by this I rose.

“Now,” thought I, as the clear water of life dashed over me, giving

freshness and vigour to every nerve, “I wonder if these people will

remark about my plain apparel as the last did.” And I went back into

the bedroom.

Behold! there upon the sofa, by the window, was a civic robe and outer

mantle of such exquisite beauty, yet so simply made, that I went nearer

to inspect it.

“This, undoubtedly,” thought I, “will just fit me. And were it not

meant for me it would not be here.” Whereupon I took it up and put it

on. It fitted with an ease and nicety which surprised me.

“They must have taken my measurements before,” thought I, and laughed.

“And if for nothing else, I am obliged to wear it out of compliment.”

A large mirror stood in the wall, and chancing to look in it I was

most fully satisfied with my appearance, which might, of course, be

prejudice.

Thus attired I went out along a short corridor which led from my room

into one fitted up with curious spinning-wheels. They were all silent

now, and no one was there, but from the open windows came the sweet,

sad song of even, the birds twittering in the neighbouring trees, and

the stillness that comes with night. The polished floor shone under

the rays of a pale crescent moon which reflected the shadow of a tall

poplar across the room. I stood still and viewed it, and then passed on

to a door at the farther end.

When I opened it a flood of light burst from a wide corridor, having

doors up either side of it and at the farther end a staircase leading

down. To this I went and passed down, much struck with the resemblance

between this and the home of Plucritus, in outward things at least.

But with what change of feeling I walked along these halls! Light

expectancy took the place of dull disinterestedness, and cheerfulness

the place of hard despair.

On the lower step Sunbeam sat, reading a book and I realised with

startling vividness the difference between her and the creature I had

once beheld in the halls of Hell. As I drew near she shut the book and

ran up the few remaining steps to meet me.

“We’re having three extra things for tea,” she murmured confidentially,

“because you are here. And mother has had word that father may be home

in time for it too.” She held my hand and danced down in the best of

good spirits by my side.

She led me to the room where tea was laid, and the greatest things I

noticed were cheerfulness and comfort round about.

A glorious fire was burning, for it was that time of year when the air

was very sharp, and in front of it a noble hound was lying fast asleep.

The table had been laid with the brightness characteristic of all

well-laid tea-tables. Yet never before had I looked forward with such

enjoyment to a meal.

The room was empty when we entered, so Sunbeam took the opportunity to

explain a few facts.

“That is quite extra,” she said, pointing with a decided finger to a

salad. “And so is that,” and she next indicated a fine salmon. “And

this cake is just the same as we have on birthdays—only it’s no one’s

birthday to-day, unless you’d like to call it yours.”

I assented, and looking round saw on a plate a small bun which, to do

it justice, had not quite the elegance which characterised the other

eatables.

I noticed that Sunbeam’s eyes dwelt lovingly in that direction.

“I made that,” she explained. “It’s quite fresh to-day. I’ve made one

ever so long, hoping father would come home. He doesn’t know I can bake

yet, we’ve kept it quite a secret.”

“Is this a special treat for him then?” I asked, scarcely able to keep

back a smile.

“Yes,” she answered, nodding eagerly, and then she went and sat beside

the dog on the floor.

“This is father’s dog,” said she. “Sometimes it goes away with him. It

is very faithful, and once it got caught in a trap and was stolen. But

after a while it got away and came back again. It was so weak that it

could scarcely crawl to the outer gates, and then it fell down, for it

couldn’t come any farther by itself.”

“Who had stolen it?” I inquired.

She shook her head.

“I don’t know. I can’t quite understand. They must have been very

ignorant, mustn’t they?”

“Why?”

“Well, you see, when you steal it means you take something that doesn’t

belong to you by mistake.”

“Oh,” said I, and waited for further instruction.

“Yes, it means you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Ah!”

“If you only go on thinking, and rub your eyes a bit now and again to

make more sure, you’ll find out.”

“But,” I suggested, filled with a very laudable desire to learn

further, “you might take something that belonged to someone else

knowingly.”

She looked up at me, and presently shook her head seriously.

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t.”

“But why?”

“Well, how could you? Wouldn’t you feel queer inside?”

“I might not. Would you?”

“Of course. Why, at that rate we should be no better than the poor

people living on earth, who are for the most part all born blind.”

She jumped up and came back to me, and those pure eyes of hers were

fixed longingly on mine.

“I should love to go to earth and kiss their eyes all open,” she cried.

“And so would Moonbeam too. But we’re too young yet—far too young.

Sometimes, but only just sometimes, mother has gone, and then she

kisses them, and then they hear the angels sing, and see the lights of

heaven. Mother kissed you before she went away, and it is that which

made you begin to get better again.”

Just then the hound sprang up listening, and bounded towards the door

and out into the hall. Sunbeam, understanding its joyous bark, ran

after it. Next I heard the loving welcome, the nearest link that earth

and heaven have.

“Father!” Such a thrill of pure love ran through the word that in it

one learnt the whole inner secret of heaven. The least vibration of

that tender, passionate voice could have moved anything but hard,

sodden earth, too dull to understand its influence.

Soon afterwards they entered by the open door, he carrying her on his

shoulder, and no queen ever seated on a golden throne looked half so

happy or so proud as she.

There then I saw, or thought I saw, for the first time my rescuer, clad

in strong, linked armour, such as Plucritus wore, that was all ablaze

with light as his had been; not the light that dazzled, but that which

made more clear. Now as I still looked I recognised him with a surprise

as genuine as it was delightful.

“Virginius!”

“Genius!” He came forward extending his hand, with equally genuine

pleasure, though less surprise than I had shown.

“You did not expect to see me?”

“You are so altered I did not know you.”

“In some ways I may say the same of you. Yet one can always trace a

likeness in one’s friends—however much they alter outwardly.”

“You honour me with the name of friend,” I said, for I remembered our

parting in the past had been short and cold.

“Yes,” he confirmed, “I think I am almost willing to take your old

advice and form the alliance, the one of which you spoke.”

I laughed.

“I am afraid at present I am little use, being no better than an

invalid, and in my poverty reduced to borrowed garments, as you see.”

He glanced at me, then shook his head.

“We neither lend nor borrow here,” he said. “What you have is yours by

right—a right stronger than ever money gave.”

Sunbeam then joined in the conversation for the first time.

“Mother made it from the pattern you sent her. I helped her to blend

the coloured silken threads, and those of gold and silver.”

Virginius put Sunbeam down.

“You will excuse me a little while. This is scarcely the attire for a

peaceful meal, but I shall soon be back again.”

Once more we were left again together, but Sunbeam’s face by this time

matched her name.

She went to the table and began pulling the chairs to their right

places. She touched almost every teaspoon and knife with a kind of

loving, restless touch, as if she would fain have put some of her own

feeling into them; lastly, she got up on a chair and cast a critical

eye on the self-made bun.

“Would you leave it?” she inquired of me.

“Why not? Certainly I should.”

“But it’s not quite as pretty as the things mother makes.”

“Well, you could hardly expect that.”

“No. Of course not.”

Then, once having settled that question, she came back to me.

“Have you known father long?” she asked.

“Yes. A very long time in some ways, a very short one in others.”

“You never met anyone quite the same, did you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Where is your father?” she questioned suddenly.

“I don’t think I ever had one,” I answered.

“Not a father? But whom does your mother live with?”

“I have no mother.”

“No mother? Oh, dear!” and she turned her head away and dashed away a

tear. But I laughed, the sympathy was so unexpected and, I thought,

unnecessary.

“You need not cry about it. Never having known them I have never missed

them.”

“Yes, you have,” she cried, and with a sudden vehemence quite out of

keeping with her looks. “When you have no father nor mother there’s a

big blank, though you may try to think there isn’t.”

“What do you know about it?” said I, still laughing.

“I know,” she replied, looking up, “because I know a lot of things in a

way. But,” she added after a pause, “you may have mine if you like.”

“But,” I went on, “they would scarcely love me as they love you, and

might not want to have such an increase in their family.”

“They would love you,” she asserted, taking my hand in hers, “just as

much as they love me. And I should be your sister, and you would have

no end of friends.”

“Do friends mean happiness?”

“Yes, they mean more love.”

“Not more expense?”

“I never heard the word before, not in connection with a friend,” and

thus our conversation ended.

CHAPTER III

Virginius soon returned, and with him his wife, whose name I learned

soon afterwards was Ursula.

But where had gone that coldness, that almost taciturn manner, and the

sternness that had seemed to me his most especial characteristics when

on earth? Even that silence, which once in a fit of anger I had termed

contemptible, had vanished. Far away from earth and all its unreal

glamour and the false shade thrown on the Power of Goodness, he was a

different spirit.

Like Plucritus he appeared taller and stronger here, lacking only

unnecessary outward show.

And Ursula, like Vestné, was attired in a robe of wondrous loveliness

and grace, but, unlike her, her brightness was infectious.

The meal was the gayest I had ever had, the food the most delicious,

and from it I rose strengthened, lightened and refreshed, to an extent

that hitherto had appeared impossible.

Sunbeam’s tea-cake had disappeared, for all had had a share of it. In

appearance it had been very plain, but I think if any confectioner

on the earth had learnt the recipe he would have made a fortune and

supplied even the most epicurean king.

“Now,” said Virginius, after we had left the table, and gathered round

the fire, “I have two presents, one for Sunbeam, and one for you,

Genius,” and he brought two small packets from a pocket and handed one

to each of us.

“Do you receive nothing, mother?” I asked, for after the first

hesitation the sweetest of words slipped out most naturally.

She shook her head and smiled.

“No,” she replied; “when we are married our husbands give us nothing

but our children. The risk of getting them is hard enough and dangerous

enough to prove to us the strongest love.”

She took Sunbeam on her knee and pressed her cheek against her own.

“This is my present,” she went on, “and it will last me in happiest

contentment until I get another. But let me see these other presents, I

am curious.”

So Sunbeam opened hers first. It was a coral necklace of pale pink, one

of the simplest gifts I had ever seen given to a child. But as soon

as she saw it her eyes beamed and the glow of pleasure flushed on her

cheeks.

She jumped down and ran across to him, and threw her arms round his

neck.

“It’s just like Moonbeam’s. When she sees it she will be as pleased as

I. And you really, really brought it from the earth?”

“Really—really. So it’s very precious. I made it myself in spare

moments from what material I could get.”

“But how is it you’ve made it just like hers? It is exactly like.”

“Well, I met Moonbeam’s father one day, and he told me he had been

making a coral necklace—three plain beads and a rough one—for his

little daughter, so I made one for my little daughter too.”

And she kissed him again without any words, but her evident gratitude

spoke more than words.

By this I had begun to unfasten my packet. I felt more of an amused

pleasure than anything else, as I expected nothing but some trifle,

knowing the barren land on which, for the most part, he had worked.

What was my surprise on finding my own ring—the one thing I had prized

and lost.

I think amazement must at first have overwhelmed all other feelings,

then gratitude, such as I had never felt before.

I glanced over to him. “Thank you,” I murmured, and could find no other

words to give expression to my thoughts.

“You thank me for that which is your own,” he smiled.

“But that which was irrevocably lost,” I rejoined.

“I do not think so. It needed one hard struggle to redeem it.”

“And I, alone, was powerless. The struggle, so far as I was concerned,

ended in total defeat.”

There was a short silence, then he continued,—

“The highest victories spring from defeat. Give me a soldier who stands

on the dead bodies of his failures. When he has conquered failure

by something higher than success he has become invincible, and his

weakness has become his surest strength.”

“You are pleased to see your ring again?” our mother questioned.

“That scarcely expresses it, I think,” and I looked at it, and saw the

many-coloured tints sparkling radiantly, as if appreciating their own

return. The scarlet bloodstones had left my hand as I passed hell’s

threshold, and now I replaced my own ring on the accustomed finger. I

noticed one stone was missing from the centre, but chose rather not to

mention it, feeling such gratitude for the ring itself.

“Is it complete?” our mother asked.

“One stone is missing.”

“Do you grieve for it?”

“How can I grieve?”

“They had disarranged the centre setting,” she replied, “and we were

unacquainted with its previous shape, so we kept the stone apart. Here,

you will do it best yourself.”

She handed over to me the central opal—the missing stone.

“Nay,” said I, “you will please me best by keeping it. It is not much,

but if you will accept it my happiness will be complete.”

She gazed at me with that curious, unfathomable light I had sometimes

seen shining in Vestné’s eyes when in a gentler mood.

“Are you willing to sacrifice so fine a stone?” she queried.

“If you put it in that light, you do me an honour of which I am

unworthy. Take it as a gift, if you will be so kind, and do not mar its

beauty with the shade of sacrifice.”

“But if I take it the after-events may be somewhat awkward,” she

observed curiously.

I shook my head.

“Nothing could be awkward that lay in your possession.”

“I am to have a gift as well then?” she said.

“If you will honour it with the name.”

She laughed softly.

“You have given me simple trust,” she went on. “I will try to repay it

by accepting this, for trust is more to me than admiration, or power,

or wealth, or anything beside.” After a pause she continued: “There is

one point about which I am curious. Your book—do you still wish that

it should succeed?”

“You call it my book, but it is not mine. It belongs entirely to the

writer.”

“The writer has given it up.”

“Burnt it?” said I, and I learnt from my own voice that annoyance is

not an unknown quantity, even in heaven.

She shook her head and laughed.

“By no means. The writer says the book belongs to you, and would never

presume to such an act. It is simply recognised as a failure, as

undoubtedly it is.”

“Then,” said I, “I am afraid I have made you a very worthless present,

since the stone is the emblem of the book.”

“I am fond of worthless presents. I am fond of failures. I am fond of

rejections. You know the old story of the stone which the builders

rejected, and it has always held good from then to now. We are very

clever, we can make so much out of nothing. Sometimes, of course, the

giver has to wait for many years, till the last great failure, death,

has been accomplished, and I have known a man who, when shown his

own worthless gifts in after times, took them to be amongst the most

precious heaven held; and when their history was unfolded to him one

big tear of thankfulness rolled from his glistening eyes, and fell, a

diamond of rare price—another gift in lieu of that which we returned

to him. Whatever is brought to us can never fall fruitlessly. We

accept everything that is given in purity and truth, and set it out to

gain the interest that it merits.”

“Then you accept my gift?”

“Undoubtedly. It has been offered to others before, but they could see

no merit in it. I think even once it was offered as a sacrifice, but

that would have been a very unpleasant thing, for earth has a generous

heart. But we in heaven can afford to be cruel, selfish, jealous of our

power and influence, vindictive when ill-pleased, anything, everything,

so long as in the end we get our way, thus turning the ill-wind into

fair, to please an intellect that cannot comprehend us.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“The language of spirits and of God, who never yet spoke plainly, in

order to have the after-pleasure of upbraiding those dull pupils who

could not understand.”

Whilst we had been speaking Sunbeam and Virginius had been much

engrossed at the further end of the room, for on leaving the tea-table

we had come to one which seemed much generally used.

She was showing him a very dainty pair of slippers, and they were

admiring them together.

“I finished the embroidery this afternoon when Genius fell asleep the

second time. To-night I’m going to put the soles on. They are all

pricked ready for sewing.”

“And when they are finished, what then?”

“Mother said you would take them with you to the earth, to fit on the

tired feet of some poor dancer she had heard about. It’s like this,

you see, father. When you put them on at first they will hurt more and

more, till they get right on, and then they will fit so beautifully

that the pain will be forgotten, and they will bring lightness and joy,

and even happiness, instead of heaviness and sorrow.”

“And my task is to get a certain dancer to wear them?”

She glanced at him and scanned his face earnestly.

“Yes,” she replied.

“And in case I fail?”

“Then they’ll have to come back again, just as all the other things

do. The other day Moonbeam’s father came home for a little while, and

he brought a very wonderful pair of spectacles which he said a friend

of his, an optician who lived in our great city, had given him. He let

both of us look through them, and when you looked through them you

could see on to the earth. At the place where he let us look there

was what they call a Rummage Sale going on, and a great many women

were buying rubbish, real rubbish from other women, who took their

money quite cheerfully and persuaded them to buy still more. And just

outside the building where it was being held there was another stall,

and it was covered with the most precious things, as we esteem them,

that wealth could buy. But no one ever touched it or went near to take

anything, and Moonbeam’s father said perhaps they were too honest, as

they hadn’t the right kind of wealth to purchase with.”

“It was rather a sad scene to show you,” said Virginius, “but still a

very true one.”

“Moonbeam’s father explained it very thoughtfully and kindly to them,”

observed our mother to me. “The Rummage Sale was a large Charity

bazaar, and the honesty he gave them credit for was blindness of heart,

which changes into hardness.”

“Are they not very young to learn the darkness of the world?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“You forget. They have been through all its toil, and littleness,

and hardened drudgery before. Heaven with its greater happiness has

still its greater sorrow. We can employ no sentiment in bringing up

our young. True love springs from no artificial root, and half its

strength is spent in yearning sorrow. I think after that he showed them

some rosy babies lying fast asleep, and one tiny mite being washed and

put to bed, and then the mother knelt beside its cot and prayed, and

Moonbeam threw a rosebud down, and the little baby laughed and held its

hands to catch the pretty flower, and the good mother felt her prayer

was answered.”

“Who is Moonbeam?” I queried.

“She is Sunbeam’s friend. They play and work together. To-morrow you

will see her. When on earth hers was a sad and uncongenial life, yet

she was uncomplaining. And finding heaven while still on earth she

gained sweetness where bitterness might else have fallen. But whilst

those two are talking and planning for the welfare of everyone except

themselves, shall you and I go and view my lumber-room, or store-room I

had rather call it, where I keep my useless gifts?”

Most willingly I went with her, passing from the lower storey to one

higher, to a more distant part of the house, filled with the quietness

and rest of sleep.

The misty light of night swept through the open windows, and its cool

refreshing breath played round us as we went. She stood before a door

and opened it, and beckoned me to follow.

We had come to a vestibule covered with pure crystal glass; the view

without was beautiful, for on one side sloped the grand scenes of

Heaven, and on the other those of Hell. Who would have thought such

dissimilar things could seem so much alike?

“What is the difference between these two kingdoms?” I asked.

“A very simple one,” she answered. “There is no difference, they are

both alike.”

I shook my head.

“Surely not,” I said.

“Then we will say the principle is different and for the present let

it rest. Now tell me, if you can, what the first sensation following

failure is?”

“I should say darkness.”

She smiled and opened the inner door, and we were greeted with a flood

of light.

She passed in and I followed, and the door closed behind us.

Light and music greeted us on every side, coming from some invisible

source. Divided off in glass cases and partitions by themselves were

the works of the poor creatures who had failed, not of one class only,

but of all.

“These are only the outward crusts and shells,” she said. “We make more

use of the inner essences. Those we appropriate within ourselves to

bring in future time to full perfection. But these are undergoing here

a perfect change from dark to light. Here is something brought to me

the other day, the outward husk of marriage, that seeming bright like

some pure brilliant flower at outset turned to soft dust and black

decay, slipping from out the hopeful grasp. It is at present very dull

and dark, with no shape and quite devoid of beauty, but with time,

and the treatment we shall give it, it will alter, and when the owner

sees it once again it will be a thing of rare beauty, a priceless

jewel above mortal worth. Here is another that has almost come to the

true length of time. You will perceive how the golden rays have become

worked into it till its dull hue has changed to brilliancy. So do they

all alter.”

“And this music—from whence does it spring?”

“It is the lonely sighing of poor prisoners—the weakening sobs, the

painful gasps—yes, and those bitter cries that only spirits ever hear

aright.”

“Then,” said I, “you accept all failures.”

“Yes,” she asserted, “but there is one great point to be

remembered—they must come to us, we cannot go to them. Till they have

stretched out the first weak hand in supplication, till that weak cry

for heavenly help has reached our ears, we are powerless—powerless as

they.”

“This place contains nothing but material failures,” I continued.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that failure with regard to temptation is not included amongst

these.”

“They are all here. When anybody having entered on the heavenly path

slips down from weariness or weakness, or maybe from dejection, but

with the pilgrim’s steadfastness of purpose struggles up again, we

take the failures and count them to their after-glory though they must

suffer at the time. Few men have ever yet reached heaven without hard

falls; they are their strong experiences. On the other hand, that does

not include those who are always down; the man who slips each time

temptation is presented is no use to us. His vain repetitions and idle

sighs affect neither himself nor us. He, as it were, would buy heaven

with dross, and hire another soldier to do the fighting for him.”

“I heard you speak of the heavenly, not the narrow path just now. The

expression, I think, is much more suitable.”

“Yes, indeed. Could they but see, it is the narrow path that ofttimes

leads to hell—the narrow path of self that hides all breadth and

height. Our path is not narrow, though at times it may be steep—very

steep, and perhaps obscure.”

We looked round for some time, learning the histories of men and women,

those dark skeletons in the cupboard that sap away life and youth. Yet

of all cheerful places I had ever visited this was the most so; and

well it might be, such things of precious beauty were being wrought

from dull wreck and despair.

“Where is my gift destined to be placed?” I asked, as we moved once

more toward the door.

She took it from the folds of her dress and looked at it.

“It is not dark,” she said. “It shines as usual. Are you quite sure it

is a failure? You may have given me a gift that still had worth. How

terrible that would be!”

I laughed.

“I am afraid it would never have met with much approval. I can

quite see myself that, judged from some points, it might be called

extravagant.”

“Now,” she cried, putting her hand upon my arm, “I’ll give you a little

piece of advice, a real piece of worldly wisdom.”

“What is it?”

“Never admit yourself to be in the wrong.”

“But—” I began.

“No ‘buts.’ Never admit yourself to be in the wrong. I’ll give you

another piece of advice too. If anyone says anything to you about your

book, tell them they must be terribly dull of comprehension. It was

simply written as a caricature of everything but goodness.”

“You know more about it than I do myself.”

“No, I don’t. But you forget. You’ve had so much of the cramping pain

of failure since, that you forget the pleasant hours you spent when it

was being written. I remember one night, after the little house was

quiet, and you had gone away, Plucritus took one of those books and

turned the leaves up to a certain page.

“‘Look here, Virginius,’ he exclaimed, ‘is this meant for me?’

“Now my husband, though most serious as a rule when down on earth,

could not repress a smile, and I, in heaven, listening, laughed aloud

in pure amusement, unmindful of the darkening future.

“‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘But I think there is a resemblance

somewhere.’

“‘Then,’ said Plucritus, ‘if this fool understands me no better than

this it’s time her eyes were opened.’

“I ceased to laugh, for I had known him many centuries, and though at

times generous enough and noble enough when dealing with us, I have

never known him relent one atom in his dealing with humanity.

“‘You should blame Genius,’ urged my husband.

“‘Oh! I will blame as many as you wish. The more the merrier. Will you

give me his address?’

“‘I do not know it,’ Virginius replied.

“‘Perhaps when this comes out he will take refuge with you.’

“‘We are not a Camp of Refuge,’ Virginius rejoined coldly. ‘Simply a

haven of comparative rest.’

“‘You are lying,’ retorted Plucritus, abruptly. ‘You know more about

him than you will confess.’

“‘I know nothing more than you yourself.’

“But dear me!” she broke off suddenly, “there I am wandering away

from my subject, and talking about muddling identities, instead

of proceeding with my own advice. What was I saying? That you had

forgotten the moral of your story. But you have given the book to me,

and I shall preserve the moral at any cost; and at the same time I

shall remember my duty towards my neighbour and compose an eleventh

commandment to suit my own requirements.”

“And what will that be?”

“Well, it will run something after this line: ‘Thou shalt not step upon

thy neighbour’s boots, nor his toes, nor his corns. Thou shalt not take

to thyself thy neighbour’s likeness, nor his voice, nor his mannerisms,

nor anything that is his. Thou shalt not take the words any more than

the bread out of thy neighbour’s mouth.’”

“Thank you,” said I, “that will do. Your eleventh commandment seems

rather comprehensive and one long hit against me.”

“I’m glad you see it at last,” she went on. “You were trying to pluck

the mote out of your brother’s eye without perceiving the beam in your

own.”

“Well, it’s a common enough failing. But what about your advice? Am I

still to maintain that I was in the right?”

She put her head very gravely on one side.

“Well, no. You must never stick to a hard-and-fast line. If I were you

I should go to my brother and I should say, ‘Look here. The beam has

clean gone out of my eye, let me proceed to gently eradicate the mote

from yours.’”

“He would be very pliable, I don’t doubt.”

“Yes. But if he seemed unconvinced I should continue thus: ‘Brother,

the beam which filled my eye was composed chiefly of ignorance and

selfishness, though, being blind, I could not see it, and the mote in

yours is composed chiefly of vanity and conceit, though, being blind,

you cannot see it either.’”

I opened my eyes.

“Did you say I was to call him ‘Brother’?” I asked.

“Undoubtedly.”

“The result of that speech would be anything but brotherly.”

“Why not? Is he then so irreproachable that he is above criticism?”

“I know nothing about him,” I replied. “I can only apologise for coming

in his way and promise the offence shall never be repeated.”

“But how do you know you ever did come in his way?”

“I do not know. I imagined it for the most part. That needs another

apology.”

“And once you said that no apology was needed.”

“I believe I did. But I was speaking on the side of prejudice.”

For some minutes she was silent, then moved along.

“Perhaps you are wisest,” she said. “We will let the matter be.”

We rejoined the others. Sunbeam was now engaged on hemming a

handkerchief.

“It’s for someone who is suffering,” she explained to me as supper was

being prepared. “Father will take it with him when he goes and wipes

the tears from their eyes. Every stitch is made of Love, and the fabric

is of Peace.”

CHAPTER IV

The next morning I was up with the light. I went downstairs and through

the open door into the cheerful gardens.

Freshness and beauty reigned on all things. The early morning scent

of flowers, the bright singing of the birds, the glorious sunlight

responded like youth’s freshest friends to my clear spirits.

I walked amongst the beds of springing flowers and by the shade of

noble trees till suddenly I saw Sunbeam coming dancing lightly down the

shining lawn. Her hands were waving in the air, her simple, graceful

garments floated like her hair upon the breeze, and round her, like a

cloud of beauty, butterflies were wheeling, dancing as she danced, as

if she were their sun.

She was a gentle, lovely child, free from sin and pangs of earthly

sorrow, yet feeling to her inmost being the tenderest love for all

things.

“Good-morning,” she greeted, and held her face up for the kiss which

she evidently thought so much of.

“Good-morning. Are these your friends?”

“Yes. We have come to dance for you. Every morning in the early

sunlight we do the same. We call it the ‘Butterfly’s Dance’; I sing and

they make the music with their wings.”

“Where did they come from?” I asked, for they were brilliant, lovely

creatures, larger than ordinary, and with colours clear as light.

“Well, they came from earth for the most part. They had pins stuck

through them by people who wanted to find out what they were like, and

some were caught, and crushed, or starved by school boys and girls.

When they died they came to us, and now they’re happy.”

The dance began. And the singing and the music and the dancing

were infectious. I began to whistle, and continued from sheer

light-heartedness. When it ended the butterflies flew about across the

gardens seeking their breakfast from the flowers and golden fruits, and

she and I together walked towards the house.

We were met at the door by Virginius.

“This afternoon we are going to the city. Mother says you may come,

Sunbeam, if you care to.”

“Is she going?”

“Yes.”

“And Moonbeam, may she come?”

“I don’t know. What will her people do without her?”

“Oh! they won’t mind just for a little while.”

“Then you’d better run across after breakfast and ask.”

I noticed that in the breakfast-room there were all the daily papers

of all lands, as there had been in Hell. Also that there were numerous

letters, and one for me.

It was unexpected, but most pleasant. When one has not received a

letter for a long time it is appreciated, even when the handwriting is

unrecognisable. On opening and reading it I found a simple invitation

enclosed to the city of which Virginius had spoken.

“We always accept invitations,” remarked our mother. “That letter means

you will be welcome to any house throughout the length and breadth of

it. We are going amongst friends, so that though there may be none of

the excitement of seeing one’s enemies, the pleasure fully compensates

for it.”

“May I ask you a serious question?” I said, as the meal continued.

“Certainly.”

“Have you any title? Are you known on earth at all by the name of

Saint?”

She shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so. I rarely go there. I should have been a saint,

I think, but I missed it by one solitary laugh. You see, I am so very

old that when I was young we had to educate ourselves. Now I, being

very foolish, thought it was only wrong to laugh at age, or weakness,

or pain, or infirmity of some sort. And one day I laughed at the High

Priest; he looked so different in his robes from what he did without

them. No one ever forgave me, not even the great absolver himself. So

I walked through life quite solitary, and was not sorry when I came to

die.”

“But in heaven they received you?”

“Yes. The next thing I remember was, I was running about gardens

similar to ours, quite young again. When I was old enough to marry my

husband said he was pleased I escaped the Saintship, as it made me more

pliable in disposition. I thought he meant to imply I had no stamina,

and so we quarrelled. It was our first and most delightful quarrel; I

can remember every word of it to this day, though I believe it is quite

three thousand years ago.”

“You acknowledge quarrelling to be legitimate?”

“Of course, provided it is carried on on a right principle, but

otherwise it becomes a very deadly and terrible thing. We have had one

such quarrel in heaven, and its results have been such as to cause

widespread grief; if possible we would avoid another.”

When breakfast was over Virginius left us, as he said, to write

letters. I, having no such thing to do, asked Sunbeam to show me the

gardens. But this was evidently contrary to the general arrangements

for the day.

“I can’t go out to play till the work is done,” she said.

“But there is no work to do.”

“Mother! mother! he says there’s no work to do.”

“Well, we must always allow for ignorance in visitors,” and touching a

spring in the wall the top of the table suddenly glided away with all

its contents.

“Now,” she remarked, turning to me, “would you like to go and see our

kitchens, or would you rather stay and amuse yourself alone till the

work is done?”

“I will come,” I assented.

So together we went.

The work here—the manual work—was very quickly and simply done. But

cookery in their hands became a fine art. The room in which this branch

of the daily industry was carried on was built of a kind of transparent

alabaster. The stoves were constructed of a substance like silver; and

the bowls, rolling-pins, spoons and knives were in themselves works

of art. The walls were lined with cupboards or safes, and it was from

these that our mother took all the ingredients that she needed.

I watched the process of preparation with interest. She evidently

understood the mysteries of celestial cookery to perfection, for in an

incredibly short time she had prepared an excellent lunch. She also

had a very wonderful creative power, as I noticed that all the dishes

were made out of pure essences or elements crushed to fine powder like

crystal salt.

One dish I watched with special interest. She had taken a fine white

powder and put it in a silver bowl. This she mixed with some other

ingredients in less quantities. Then over the whole there was sprinkled

a pure liquid which turned the whole mass to the palest shade of pink.

Then, with a few dexterous turns of a special knife, the mixture began

to fall in light flakes. To this some drops of oil that fell like

crystal were added. It was left to stand in a refrigerator, whilst she

prepared, on a polished framework, a shape of silver scales, tinted in

parts with bluish grey. This done she returned to the hardened mass and

moulded it with marvellous exactness to the form which she required.

Over this, as a dainty covering, she folded the shining scales, and

with the insertion of two softened jewels there appeared a fish so fine

and real that not the most expert could ever have told it had not been

caught in pure river water. She then took it to a stove and placed it

where it was held in position by silver spikes. On touching a spring

the stove was filled with light heat. “We never use fire,” she said,

smiling. “I leave this here now, and it remains till wanted. The light

gradually works its way through the whole, and then it has become

what you call cooked to a nicety. Next, by a very exact mathematical

process, this screw turns again, and the unnecessary light is cut off.

But the light which has entered, and the heat, still remains within the

body. Thus when required it is in perfect readiness, so that everything

being properly cooked—that is, full of light—we never have heavy

food, and so are spared the pangs of indigestion.”

“You have a wonderful cookery-book,” said I.

She laughed.

“A good cook is a born artist, who can put the spirit of taste into his

work,” she declared. “You little thought last night when you partook of

that fair salmon that you were not partaker in the murderer’s spoil.”

“Indeed, I remarked upon the delicacy of flavour.”

“I know.”

Thus was every dish prepared with a quickness and perfection very

marvellous, so that as I watched I began to feel an appetite for

dinner, though breakfast was just over.

“There is not much to be done in this line to-day,” she observed, “for

this afternoon we go to the city. According to our time, I generally

spend one hour a day upon it, unless I am trying some new recipe or

making an experiment.”

And it seemed that in a marvellously short time there had appeared some

of the daintiest dishes imaginable, savoury and sweet.

Sunbeam, in the meantime, had been busy rearranging the table which had

passed here from yesterday’s dining-room, so she told me. She and I

together went to gather flowers and fruit, whilst our mother went to

make the beds. I remembered that Vestné had performed these offices

every morning and alone. I found myself wondering vaguely had she

loved her work as much as these, and then I recollected that she must

have done, because often from the open windows I had heard her singing

gaily, though the songs had brought no happiness to me.

“Which is your favourite flower?” asked Sunbeam.

“Lily of the valley.”

“Then we’ll gather that.”

“Which is your favourite?”

“Red roses,” she replied. “Moonbeam likes white ones, and

chrysanthemums.”

“You have not been to see her yet?”

“No. But I’m going when the work is done.”

So we gathered red roses and white, and lily of the valley, and

chrysanthemums, and green foliage, and carried them back to the house.

We arranged the flowers between us, she and I, and were so absorbed

that neither of us spoke.

After a while we were joined by Virginius.

“What kind of fruit are we going to have for dinner, Sunbeam?” he asked.

“Gooseberries,” she answered, and laughed. “You had better come to help

us to gather them, and then we shall be sooner done.”

“If it is to be gooseberries,” he went on, “we will come out to

gather and eat them. Strawberries are best on a plate with cream, but

gooseberries are best when picked from a tree.”

Just then our mother entered.

“There,” she cried, “I knew there would be little work done when I

was away. Where is the fruit, Sunbeam? You have brought nothing but

flowers.”

“It’s gooseberries,” she said, looking up from a bowl of dark roses.

“Father says he’s going to eat his out in the garden after.”

“And are we all to do so?”

“Yes, unless you want something else. I’ll go and gather it if you want

something else.”

“Oh, no. I think you had better run over and see Moonbeam now; and

listen, Sunbeam, give them my love and say I should be very pleased if

Moonbeam might be allowed to come and spend a little time in the city

with us.”

“Genius is going with me, and we’ll wait and bring her back with us if

she can come.”

So together we went, and as we crossed the gardens and the park many

gentle animals bounded over our path. Tall deer that had been hunted

in the chase, squirrels and timid rabbits, birds of all kinds and

countries, horses and cattle grazing on rich slopes, and young lambs

frisking over golden lawns, forgetful of the sacrifice of their young

lives for man.

How joyous and how free from fear their lives were here! The squirrels

bounded along the track in front of us; the deer stared at us lazily as

we passed; the birds flew from branch to branch, following our steps

with music.

“You are never quite alone then, even when you walk,” I began at last.

“Not unless I want to be. We have to be alone sometimes, you know; if

we weren’t we should never grow.”

“And you like being alone?”

“Yes. Up to a certain point it is the best thing for all of us, mother

says.”

“Do you go to school, Sunbeam?”

“No. We never go till we are old enough.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“We never go till we are about fifteen.”

“And your boys, when do they go?”

“At the same age.”

“Don’t they get out of bounds and management by that time?” I asked.

“Oh, no—why should they?”

“I don’t know. I imagined it was best for a boy to go to school when he

was seven, and stay there, generally speaking, till he was past twenty.”

Sunbeam laughed. “He’ll be very wise when he comes out of school,” she

said. “We take a five years’ course, boys and girls alike.”

“Do you attend the same schools?”

“Oh, no. We don’t even learn the same lessons. But you’ll have to ask

mother or father about school. They know more about it than I do,

because they’ve been.”

“Is your education finished when you are twenty?” I continued.

“Oh, no! Mother says it’s only just begun.”

“Still,” said I, “don’t your boys get rather spoilt staying at home

till that age? There is so little for them to do.”

“They help with the housework,” she rejoined.

“And do they like it?”

“Of course. It’s their duty. If you cannot work in the house you’ll

never work out of it—not in a proper spirit.”

“What is their work in the house?”

“Well, it’s the usual work that you’ve seen going on this morning, and

anything else that may occur. Then, of course, we have lessons with our

mothers, and they take up the afternoons, and the evenings from tea to

bed-time we have entirely to ourselves.”

“And which part of the day do you like best?”

“I don’t know. I like them all.”

“You have no sisters or brothers?” I questioned.

She shook her head thoughtfully.

“I have one sister,” she answered. “But at times she goes away and

leaves us, and we are lonely till she comes again. Moonbeam used to

have a brother, but he went away to school a long time ago. He used to

be very good at making beds.”

“Making beds!” I repeated.

“Why not?” she inquired.

“Nothing, nothing. I thought it rather a curious occupation.”

“We don’t know him very well,” she continued, scarcely noticing my last

remark. “He went away to school in the city long before Moonbeam was

born, and she is older than I even. He used always to make the beds at

home before he went, and when he went they missed him so much that his

mother wrote to tell him she hadn’t slept for two nights, everything

seemed so strange, and not near so comfortable. Well, when he got that

letter he was sitting at breakfast with the rest, and suddenly he just

put his head down on the table and cried.”

“But why?”

“Well, don’t you see, it had been his secret. When he had the time to

himself at night he’d been thinking and thinking about it all, and

he’d tried one thing and then he’d tried another.”

“Do you mean he had concentrated all his energies on bed-making?”

“Yes, and he never knew it had had the least effect, because no one had

ever said a word to him.”

“Not even his mother?”

Sunbeam laughed.

“Oh, no. Why should she? She pretended she knew nothing about it till

he had gone. Well, when they all saw him crying they thought he was

putting it on, as he was given to a great many antics, but the master,

who was sitting at the top of the table, was cleverer than the boys,

and when the meal was over he sent for him and he asked him why he

cried. Then he showed him the letter, and he read it through, and then

he said to him, ‘You may make my bed as well as your own if you care

to.’

“For he knew it is the best to do things for others. It is how we reach

perfection, when we have learnt by simplicity to trust ourselves. And

that was just what he had been longing for, yet had never liked to ask,

for he had never had anything else to make but his own bed since coming

from home.”

“Well, what is the end of this long story?” I asked.

“Well, the end of it is,” she answered very seriously, “he’s the best

bed-maker in this particular kingdom of Heaven.”

I sat down on the trunk of a tree to laugh and stare at her.

But nothing ever seriously disturbed Sunbeam; instead, she sat on the

grass and laughed too.

“Do you think it funny?” she asked.

“Why, yes,” I said.

“Tell me why,” she enjoined, half laughing, half serious. “Mother says

we’re none the worse for seeing the funny side of things, but sometimes

I can’t find it, and she says we ought not to strain after anything.”

“Well—” I began.

“Go on.”

“Well—” I began again.

“Well what?”

“Well, really, I think I must have fallen into the absurdity of

laughing at nothing.”

“You can’t,” flashed Sunbeam with some heat.

“I can account for my amusement in no other way,” I returned.

“If you won’t tell me,” she cried with more warmth than before, “I

won’t kiss you again for a week, and that will be just as disagreeable

for you as for me.”

Then she jumped up and came to me coaxingly.

“Come along, Genius,” she urged, “just do tell me what you were

laughing at. You wouldn’t laugh at nothing. Nobody ever does.”

“Well,” I began, heroically casting about for an explanation, “you see

you said he was the best bed-maker as proudly as if you had said he

was the best general, or the best cricketer, or the finest sportsman,

or—or—the truth is, Sunbeam, you were thinking of one thing and I was

thinking of another.”

“Is that why you laughed?”

“I am afraid there was no other reason.”

“What’s a general?” she inquired presently.

“A soldier,” I answered, walking on again.