{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_69837/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_69837","id":"gutenberg_69837","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69837","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Interpersonal relations -- Fiction","Spiritualism -- Fiction","United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction"],"text":"AN INDEX FINGER.\n\n\n\n\n                            AN INDEX FINGER\n\n                                  BY\n                             TULIS ABROJAL\n\n\n  \u201cAll the Sutras are but fingers that point out the shining moon.\u201d\n\n  \u201cMan, thou livest forever.\u201d\n\n\n  Has any one supposed it is lucky to be born?\n\n  I hasten to inform him, or her, it is just as lucky to die, and I know\n   it.\n\n  This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look\u2019d at the crowded\n   heaven.\n\n  And I said to my spirit: When we become the unfolders of those orbs,\n   and the pleasure and knowledge of everything in them, shall we be\n   filled and satisfied then?\n\n  And my spirit said: No, we but level that lift to pass and continue\n   beyond.\n\n                                                        --WALT WHITMAN.\n\n                            [Illustration]\n\n                 R. F. FENNO & COMPANY, 9 and 11 EAST\n                    SIXTEENTH STREET: NEW YORK CITY\n                                 1898\n\n\n\n\n                            Copyright, 1897\n                                  BY\n                            TULIS ABROJAL.\n\n\n                          _An Index Finger._\n\n\n\n\n                              DEDICATION.\n\n\nTo those who faithfully follow their ideals, ever doing the work they\nlove to do, always giving to the world the best that is in them--the\ntruth as they see it--though in the face of difficulties, disasters\nand defeat; enduring persecution, poverty and want, meeting the dread\nspectre of starvation, suffering death itself if need be, yet counting\nall not too great a price to pay for the freedom of their souls, this\nbook is sympathetically dedicated.\n\n\n\n\n                               CONTENTS.\n\n\n  CHAP.                                                             PAGE\n\n  PREFACE                                                              7\n\n  I. THE CHILD AND HER OWN PEOPLE                                     13\n\n  II. WHERE THE ROAD DIVIDES                                          40\n\n  III. CONFIDENCES AND QUESTIONS                                      56\n\n  IV. HER STORY AND FATE                                              74\n\n  V. THE END OF THE DREAM                                             92\n\n  VI. THE BUTTERFLY                                                  110\n\n  VII. OPPORTUNITY                                                   131\n\n  VIII. DEATH\u2019S NARROW SEA                                           148\n\n  IX. THINGS NOT DREAMED OF IN EVERYDAY PHILOSOPHY                   156\n\n  X. \u201cYE SHALL NOT UNDERSTAND\u201d                                       168\n\n  XI. A LITTLE BOARD BRIDGES THE GREAT GULF                          179\n\n  XII. AND THE PROPHET WAS STONED                                    202\n\n  XIII. THE TONGUES OF ANGELS                                        218\n\n  XIV. THE SIMPLE WAY                                                240\n\n  XV. IT IS WELL WITH THE CHILD                                      248\n\n  XVI. THE STORY OF ONE RETURNED FROM THE DEAD                       254\n\n  XVII. UPROOTING A HUMAN TREE                                       277\n\n  XVIII. BOHEMIA\u2019S HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS                               293\n\n  XIX. THE JOYS                                                      310\n\n  XX. PEOPLE OF THE PAST                                             317\n\n  XXI. THE BUTTERFLY\u2019S FLIGHT                                        331\n\n  XXII. THE PROP THAT FAILED                                         340\n\n  XXIII. THE BOOK AND ITS CRITICS                                    353\n\n  XXIV. WHO ARE THEY?                                                358\n\n  XXV. LAST WORDS                                                    379\n\n\n\n\n                               PREFACE.\n\n\nThe good old custom of the author telling his readers in a preface why\nhe wrote his book, happily has not yet gone out of date. Though no\nparticular friend to guide-board literature in general, I confess to a\nweakness for the preface. It has its helpful uses. There the author can\ntalk directly to his readers, without filtering his thoughts through\nthe brains of his characters; and in consequence the readers come into\ncloser sympathy with him and understand him better. In not a few cases\nI have wished books were all preface. I hope others may not wish so in\nthis case.\n\nIn the preface we meet the author face to face, as it were, and he\nbecomes ours or we become his at once. It is a little confidential\nglimpse into his soul, which he kindly gives us before we enter it by\nmeans of the book.\n\nYes, I am decidedly in favor of the preface, both as reader and author.\n\nA time-honored method of prefatory writing, made the author assume a\nmodesty that was self-depreciatory in the extreme. More often than\nnot he warned readers off by throwing out hints disparaging his own\nability. To such few readers as he thought might follow him through\nthe book in spite of his assurance that it would be unprofitable to do\nso, he apologized with the utmost humility for the waste of their time\nand drain upon their patience for which he was about to be responsible.\n\nI shall do no such thing. On the contrary, I believe that he who\nreads this book will not find his time ill spent. Its theme is the\nmost important that can engage the human race. It is my answer to the\nmightiest question ever propounded. _My_ answer. Its value extends that\nfar and no farther. \u201cIt is only insight into the ground of being that\nsecures satisfaction and thorough knowledge.\u201d My light may be only a\nrush-light; but such as it is I obey the behest to let it shine.\n\nSays one of the greatest of modern philosophers: \u201cIf anything in the\nworld is worth wishing for--so well worth wishing for that even the\nignorant and dull herd in its more reflective moments would prize it\nmore than silver or gold--it is that a ray of light should fall on the\nobscurity of our being, and that we should gain some explanation of our\nmysterious existence, in which nothing is clear but its misery and its\nvanity.\u201d\n\nTo each of us things are what they appear from each particular point of\nview. Our idea is our limitation.\n\nHe who writes a book presents to other minds a picture of life as it\nappears to him, from whatever point of view he has chosen. His work\nportrays both that which he sees outside himself and that which is\nwithin. It is a combination of himself and the world as he sees it, for\nof subject and object are all things made.\n\nWhen we read a tale it is the author we learn to know, rather than\nhis people; but we know him through his people. They are the dwellers\nwithin his mind, and we cannot know them without entering that realm\nand knowing it, be it enchanted or disenchanting.\n\nSight and insight make up all literature. Every book is a combination\nof the author and what he looks upon and studies objectively as well as\nsubjectively. It is truth as he sees it.\n\nI have read many interesting works of fiction; but for the most part\nI laid them down dissatisfied. They lacked something for which I was\nalways searching. They gave no answer to the questions that early began\nto trouble me--questions that nobody could answer and few cared to be\nbothered with. Often they were very attractive pictures of that which\nthe world is to so many--a fool\u2019s paradise.\n\nThey dealt with the emotions of those whose lives they portrayed, and\nthey appealed to the emotions of those who read them; and all had ever\nthe one, one theme--the pursuit of happiness. And all pursuers saw the\nalluring phantom in the same shape, and gave chase to it by the same\nroad. Sometimes they captured it, and then--the book ended. There was\nnothing else for the author to do when he reached that point, but to\nlet the curtain drop and turn out the lights, lest his audience see\nthat the happiness so hotly pursued was not the true thing after all;\nbut only an appearance, an illusion, a disappointment, as veritable a\nphantom as ever--which left the one in possession of it no better off\nthan he was before he captured it.\n\nNow the form of this phantom, was the love of the man and the woman for\neach other, and the possession of each by the other. Romances have been\nmostly amplified sex chases. They wrought upon the reader\u2019s emotions\nthrough many harrowing chapters, the end thereof being that a certain\nman married the particular woman he was pursuing.\n\nAn old man whom I knew in my youth said he only read the first and\nlast chapters of a novel. In the one he became acquainted with the\nhero and heroine; in the other he found out \u201cwhether he got her or\nnot.\u201d By so doing he escaped much emotional wear and tear to which\nless discriminating readers subjected themselves. As we all know,\nsometimes \u201che didn\u2019t get her.\u201d What then? Well, perhaps she died or\nhe died, and that ended the story. Everybody accepted that event as\nfinal and incontestable. That was the end, and nobody ventured to ask\nwhat lay behind it. It was the end of the successful as well as of the\ndisappointed--the end of everybody in the world, yet nobody sought its\nmeaning.\n\nIn this respect the people outside of books were precisely like the\npeople in books. They had the same ideal of happiness, chased it\nthrough the same difficulties and disasters, and would not admit that\nit was a phantom; would not see that Death stalked behind every joy,\nsat at every feast, touched elbows right and left with the victorious\nas well as with the defeated, and waited for everybody under the sun.\nThey knew it, of course, but they did not want to think about it or\ntalk about it.\n\nAnd what was this spectre to which all closed their eyes because of\nterror? Death was death. That was all they knew. It was the terrible\nand final thing that could happen. More; it was sure to happen; but it\nmust be put off as long as possible and ignored in the meantime.\n\nTo me it ever was incomprehensible that so dreadful an issue was so\nhopelessly accepted and so little inquired into.\n\nI pondered much on this strange problem. The dream haunted my mind that\nsomewhere there was a solution.\n\nI sought it everywhere from men and books; but long without success. At\nlast a ray of light fell upon my path. Faithfully following it through\nyears of earnest inquiry I learned that Death is not death. With that\nknowledge happiness took a new form and beckoned to me over a new road.\n\nBecause of the new ideals it placed before me I wrote this book. Its\npeople are my people; its gospel my gospel. From the truth as I was led\nto see it I found a reason for my own being as well as for that of the\nbook, and I have tried to give it to the reader as simply as it came to\nme.\n\nThe psychical phenomena described are not exaggerated. Most of it\ncame within my own experience, and would be accessible to any one who\ndevoted to the study as much patience, time and effort as I did.\n\nThere will be those who will give to the book only the sneer of\nconceited ignorance. For such I have no message. With them, the first\ncondition of all learning--receptively--is lacking. I make no argument.\nI try to convince no one. I simply tell a story. It will bear its own\nmessage to those ready to receive it. None else can understand. God\nHimself cannot give us what we will not receive.\n\nThe book is but a finger that aims to point out to others a moon that\nmade glorious light for me. And if you will patiently look in the\ndirection it points, you, too, will see the shining moon.\n\n                                                            THE AUTHOR.\n\n\n\n\n                                PART I.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER I.\n\n                     THE CHILD AND HER OWN PEOPLE.\n\n There are some of us who in after years say to Fate, \u201cNow deal us your\n hardest blow; give us what you will; but let us never again suffer as\n we suffered when we were children.\u201d\n\n The barb in the arrow of childhood\u2019s suffering is this; its intense\n loneliness, its intense ignorance.\n\n --_Olive Schreiner._\n\n\nUnder a great tree a child was singing softly to herself:\n\n  Beautiful, dear, and noble old tree\n  Bend your green branches caressing o\u2019er me.\n  For oh! a day\u2019s coming, and soon will be here,\n  When I shall be far from your presence and cheer;\n  And my heart will be lonely without your embrace,\n  And you--you will long for a sight of my face.\n\n  Your branches bend low to the ground,\n    Bend low and caressingly,\n  And they sway with a murmurous sound--\n  A language of nature profound--\n    Sway softly and caressingly,\n  As they bend, with a sigh, to the ground.\n\n  They chant the grand chorus of ages,\n    In musical monotone;\n  And open the past\u2019s mystic pages--\n  The wonderful, solemn, sealed pages--\n    So vaguely and dimly known.\n  They sing me the song of the ages.\n\n  When I listen with spirit and soul\n    To each swaying, whisp\u2019ring bough,\n  The silent centuries backward roll\n  And open before me like a scroll.\n    And I view the \u201cThen as Now\u201d--\n  When I listen with spirit and soul.\n\nShe was lying on the grass, with her face toward the sky, which she\ncould only see in spots through the tree\u2019s thick branches, which hung\nlow and swayed in the slightest breeze, with a motion that was very\nlike a caress to one beneath them. A house stood near, but the tree\ncompletely hid it on one side. One coming from the south saw only a\nbeautiful grassy hill surmounted by a great green umbrella.\n\nUnder this friendly shelter the woman-child lay, singing her own words\nto her own tunes. Oblivious to outward sounds, she heard no footsteps\nuntil the branches parted and a stranger entered her temple.\n\nAt this a dog that had been enjoying the profoundest of slumber near\nher, sprang to his feet with a great show of vigilance, making up for\nhis tardiness by the most energetic barking.\n\n\u201cBe quiet, Bliss,\u201d said the child, rising to a sitting posture and\nlooking steadily at the stranger, with the utmost composure. The dog\nat once became silent, but he went close to her and posed as on the\ndefensive.\n\n\u201cI beg pardon,\u201d said the intruder, politely raising his hat, \u201cI saw no\none, and thought to rest a bit in the shade, and get a cool drink of\nwater, too.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe well is on the other side of the house,\u201d she said, making a motion\nin that direction with a thin, nervous, unchildlike hand. Her words\nand manner expressed the utmost indifference--yet there was a gleam of\ninterest in her big, clear eyes.\n\nThe stranger moved on, murmuring thanks. She looked after him with a\nsudden yearning in her heart for his return. He was not of her world,\nthat was sure; and yet somehow it was quite clear to her that he was\nof her world--the world of her dreams, where she longed to be, fancied\nshe had been, and from whence she had somehow sadly strayed. Yes, in\nthat instant of contact she understood that in spite of all apparent\ndifference their worlds were the same.\n\nIn another moment he returned. Gracefully begging permission, he\nseated himself on the grass and leaned against the tree. His manner\ncaptivated her. It was respectful and deferential as to a woman grown.\nIt enchanted her, for she was one of those misunderstood children who\nhave thoughts and feelings far beyond their years and suffer great\nhumiliation when treated patronizingly.\n\n\u201cYou are not at all afraid of me although I came unannounced and\nunintroduced, are you?\u201d he asked, half laughing.\n\n\u201cAfraid? Why should I be? I am in my own door-yard. Besides, you don\u2019t\nlook like a wild beast, and if you were one, here is Bliss to take care\nof me.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you. It\u2019s a comfort to know you have no doubt that I am human.\nBut what is this?\u201d he asked, as a piece of cardboard blew toward him.\n\u201cAh! a drawing. May I look at it?\u201d\n\nShe nodded her consent.\n\nIt was a pencil drawing of a woman\u2019s head, and interested him at first\nglance, because, imperfect though it was, it had that which makes\nart great when it is so--the human quality, the power to express its\ncreator, the aim and object of all art. This penciled face gave an\ninsight into the artist\u2019s mind, showing that which she had tried to\nexpress and yet had not made clear. It showed the height to which she\nrose in fancy, and the long and rugged road between present performance\nand the perfection of which she dreamed.\n\nAll this the stranger saw, because we see what is within ourselves. It\ntakes genius to recognize genius. He had traveled the road on which she\nwas taking her first feeble steps.\n\n\u201cIs it your work?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she nodded, coloring faintly. It was plain that she expected no\npraise, yet longed for a helping word.\n\n\u201cIs it a copy?\u201d he asked, for there was about it, although but half\nexpressed, that which he thought must have been suggested by something\nfrom a master hand.\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen who is it?\u201d There was unaffected interest in his voice.\n\n\u201cOne of my people,\u201d she answered.\n\n\u201cDoes she live here?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe is here sometimes, not always.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, she must be a beautiful woman--even more beautiful than you\ndepict her.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou understand,\u201d said the child. \u201cI cannot put her on paper as I see\nher. I know but little of drawing, but I am always trying to draw\nfaces--the faces of my own people--and trees, for they are my own\npeople too; but I am never satisfied with my work. They do not get on\nthe paper as they are in my mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not have some instruction?\u201d\n\nShe shrugged her shoulders.\n\nThe stranger understood, but in order not to seem to, he began to pick\nup some scattered leaves of paper near him. Seeing that they contained\nwriting he was about to lay them down with an apology when the child\nsaid:\n\n\u201cIt is a letter I have written to Helen, the woman whose picture you\nhave just been looking at. You may read it, only not aloud. I couldn\u2019t\nstand that.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut why should I read it at all?\u201d he said. \u201cIt would be impertinent\non my part. Besides, I am not afflicted with the despicable vice of\ncuriosity.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you don\u2019t mind, I wish you would read it,\u201d she said. \u201cIt may help\nme. You will understand when you have finished.\u201d But she looked ill at\nease, nevertheless.\n\nThe stranger read:\n\n MY DEARLY BELOVED HELEN:--Since you went away I am very lonely indeed.\n None other is so near and dear to me as you. I fill the hours with\n thoughts of you--thoughts so intense and absorbing that at times I\n actually see you by my side. But, alas! you do not stay when you come\n like that. You fade out of my sight; you go back to your world and I\n cannot follow you only with my thoughts, my dreams, my love and my\n letters.\n\n But I shall go and find you some day. I shall be one of the people\n of your world, and shall be busy with work which shall fill my time,\n my brain and my heart. I shall meet all my people there--my very own\n people, and shall love them and work with them and know loneliness no\n more. I have a story to tell you, Dear Heart. It is this:\n\n In a world nameless to all mankind, lived a woman, sweet and fair.\n It was a beautiful world. There the men were all true and the women\n all faithful. Misery was unknown and none sought happiness, for all\n possessed it.\n\n But this one woman dreamed dreams and saw visions. She heard voices\n calling to her from another world--a world whose people sought\n continually and vainly to attain a condition they knew only in name,\n and which they called Happiness. All believed in the existence of\n this condition and gave chase to it, each in his own way, but none\n found it. Often hearing the voices of these unhappy people and\n seeing them in visions, this woman longed to go and help them. The\n longing disturbed the harmony of life in all her world, until it was\n decreed that she must leave it and go to that other whose vibrations\n of anguish had shaken the spheres. But they did not tell her of her\n destiny. \u201cShe will know when she is there,\u201d they said.\n\n So she slept, and the sleep was long in the eyes of the children of\n Time.\n\n When she awoke, memory was gone, and everything had to be learned\n over again. At first her consciousness was very dim, and her strength\n feeble, and having slept so long she could scarcely keep awake at all.\n\n But after a time a faint memory of the past came to her, and she saw\n that all was different from that other time, which now seemed like a\n dream. This was not the same world, nor were these the same people\n she had known, for she was in the sad world she had seen in visions,\n whose people so persistently and often frantically sought Happiness\n and never found it--and that sad world was this in which we live.\n\n She was changed in appearance, too, for when she looked in a mirror\n she saw a face that was new to her and a tiny figure. She was like a\n child, and everybody called her a child, though to herself she seemed\n not to be a child, because part of her memory had come back, and it\n was the memory of a woman.\n\n It was very hard to feel like a full-grown person in mind and be\n treated like a creature with almost no mind at all. One of the most\n painful things she saw was that sometimes the most ignorant and\n unfeeling were in positions of power over sensitive children. She\n suffered much from the very beginning of consciousness.\n\n To go back to the world she could so dimly remember was her one dream.\n But when she spoke of it those about her laughed and said she had\n never been in any other world, because there was no other.\n\n Once in a dream she went back, or perhaps it was that some of her old\n friends came to her. They told her to be patient; that she had been\n sent to help the unhappy ones who had so often called to her; that\n scattered all over the planet in which she dwelt now were others like\n herself, who had come for the same purpose; that she would meet them\n from time to time and that would pay her for much of her pain.\n\n They said, too, that she had a particular work to do here and could\n not leave until it was done, but she must find out what it was\n herself; that the road would often seem very hard and very long, but\n it had an end, and if she did her work well--\n\n There the dream ended; but it comforted her, all unfinished as it was.\n\n By and by her childhood was gone. She was a woman, and went forth to\n find her work, earnest, enthusiastic and eager, and they said she had\n precious gifts.\n\n \u201cI will paint pictures,\u201d she said, \u201cfor always in my mind are noble\n faces and figures, like the gods when they walked among men, and these\n shall show mankind how glorious it can itself become.\u201d\n\n Beautiful creations, perfect shapes of beauty came forth from her\n hand, but the world, for the most part, passed them by. It said, \u201cWe\n see nothing in these,\u201d and it spoke the truth, for that in them could\n only be seen by those like unto them.\n\n A few, however, stood before them filled with delight. They were\n people of the planet from which the artist came, and they recognized\n their kindred in the faces and forms she had depicted; but she herself\n was never satisfied with what she had done. Within her mind, faces\n more glorious, and forms more perfect struggled for expression.\n\n \u201cI have a tale to tell,\u201d she said, \u201cthat many will be glad to hear,\n for it contains help for all.\u201d But again the world did not understand.\n It said, \u201cThe people of this book are impossible people, and what\n is the author trying to say? We see nothing in it.\u201d A few only\n understood; but these were of her planet.\n\n \u201cNow,\u201d she said, \u201cI will write again, and this time the world will\n read and be charmed. I will give it what it wants, not what I want to\n give it.\u201d\n\n She spoke truly. She wrote and many were pleased; but the people of\n her planet closed her book with pain in their faces, and she herself\n found no joy in it. To her conscience she made this excuse: \u201cI want\n bread and the easy, comfortable things of life, and the world wants\n foolishness, so we exchange products. Some day I will write that which\n pleases myself. Then I shall make no concessions, no bids for favor. I\n shall say what I feel and think.\u201d\n\n Time went on, and the world became interested in new names, and\n almost forgot hers. Days of discouragement and distress arrived. The\n ease which she had bought by pleasing the commonplace, vanished, and\n loneliness, ill-health and poverty came in its stead. Weary and\n sick unto death in spirit and body, she longed to end it all, and so\n longing fell asleep, and sleeping dreamed.\n\n She saw again the faces of those from her other world who had come to\n comfort her when a child. One, the most beautiful of all, and yet just\n now the saddest, seemed nearer and dearer than the others. It was a\n glorious face, radiant with strength and sweetness, a type of perfect\n womanhood. All her life it had visited her in dreams and haunted her\n imagination. Sometimes the name that belonged to it hovered on her\n lips, yet was never spoken, for it always vanished before it took\n shape in her mind.\n\n \u201cDid you find your work?\u201d they asked.\n\n \u201cI tried hard, dear friends,\u201d she said. \u201cI have not been idle.\u201d But\n their faces showed no joy.\n\n \u201cHave I not done my work well?\u201d she questioned, beginning to be afraid.\n\n \u201cHave you given your best?\u201d they asked.\n\n A flush of shame covered her face. \u201cNo; the world did not want it.\u201d\n\n They were silent, and there was that in their eyes which made her more\n and more ashamed.\n\n \u201cI needed bread,\u201d she said, anxious to make excuse.\n\n \u201cIs bread all that is worth striving for, that you paid for it so high\n a price?\u201d they asked.\n\n She was silent.\n\n \u201cDid you come to please or help the people of this world?\u201d they asked.\n\n \u201cYou told me long ago that I came to help,\u201d she answered, \u201cbut they\n made it very hard. When I wrote that which burned within my soul\n they cared not to hear it, but wanted something that entertained and\n diverted them from what they call the cares of life; and I--well, I\n was often hungry--so I gave them what they wanted.\u201d\n\n \u201cAnd did they reward you?\u201d\n\n \u201cYou see I have nothing,\u201d she answered. \u201cFor a time I had some of the\n possessions all value so much; but they are gone.\u201d\n\n \u201cYou tried to tell these people what you thought and felt, but they\n would not listen, you say; so you told them little foolish tales,\n like those that please children, but instruct not, help not, and thus\n you passed your life neglecting to unfold your own soul by expressing\n it truly. Only the weak and feeble of will, or the indolent and\n indifferent, turn back at the first obstacle. Where was your faith?\u201d\n\n \u201cI sold it, as you see, for a pitiful price,\u201d she answered, weeping.\n\n \u201cAnd were you satisfied?\u201d\n\n \u201cNever. My conscience always lashed me. I have been punished already.\n Give me no further penance.\u201d\n\n \u201cIt is not ours to punish or pardon, nor in all the universe is there\n either punishment or pardon. There is only unchangeable, ever-active\n law. Had you done your work well\u201d--\n\n \u201cWhat is it to do one\u2019s work well?\u201d she interrupted.\n\n And now the woman of the glorious face came near and answered: \u201cIt is\n to give the highest and best that is in you, without caring whether\n it will please or offend; to express truth, as you see it, though the\n world be against you; to pay whatever price is asked, though it be\n starvation and disgrace for the freedom of your soul, for the soul is\n only free when it faithfully follows its IDEAL.\u201d\n\n \u201cThen I know I have not done my work well,\u201d said the woman, sadly. \u201cI\n seldom gave my best. I had not the courage. I was afraid the price I\n would have to pay would be too high. But what is the fate of those who\n do not do their work well?\u201d\n\n The faces of the company were full of pity, as they answered, \u201cThey\n must do it over again.\u201d\n\n Then the woman wept aloud. \u201cBut not just yet,\u201d they said. \u201cYou are\n very tired; your strength is gone. You shall rest for a time.\u201d\n\n Then one touched her eyes gently, and they closed to the light of this\n world!\n\n Helen, dearest, I dreamed that story, and I was the woman who\n did not do her best. It always seems to me that I lived long ago\n somewhere--many lives perhaps. At times I can almost remember scenes\n and people of that far-off time. It may be that it was right here in\n this world, and that I have been sent back to do what I left undone.\n Or it may be that here in this life I shall not do what I ought to do,\n and must come again. Ever with me is the thought that there is some\n particular thing for me to do and that I must make haste to find it\n and do it, because the time is short.\n\n Part of my work is to find my people--thy own people whom I knew in\n that far-away life, you are one of them, and--\n\nThe stranger laid the unfinished letter down and looked curiously\nat the author. He had not observed her closely until then. He saw\nin her face that which is higher than beauty, but is only seen and\nunderstood by its spiritual kindred. The mouth, that unmistakable key\nto character, because it is the door through which the soul expresses\nitself, was perfect in shape and exquisitely sensitive, though the\nother features had a dash of boyish ruggedness in them. But the eyes,\nthe dark grey eyes, mottled with tawn, had in them a look, indefinable,\nyearning, appealing,--a look that might have ages of suffering behind\nit--and perhaps before it--that went to the stranger\u2019s heart like a\nknife, and filled his eyes with a mist. In after years more than one\nstrong spirit lost its strength and wept it knew not why, before that\nflash-light of a soul.\n\nIn the same moment the stranger saw another thing. It was that the\nchild was entirely without self-consciousness and the consequent\ncoquetry which so often spoils the manners of even very little women.\nShe was not thinking how she appeared in his eyes. He could see that.\nIt was nothing to her that her feet were naked, her hair twisted and\nher clothing crumpled. It was plain that these unconventional facts\ndid not even present themselves to her mind. Her shoes and stockings\nand big straw hat lay near her on the grass, and she gave no sign of\nembarrassment because she was not arrayed in them. She met him on the\nground of mind to mind. In her shining, yearning eyes was an eager\ninterest.\n\n\u201cA free, original, aspiring spirit,\u201d he mused. \u201cLife will be a rough\npilgrimage for her. She will find it hard to shape herself to iron-clad\nstandards. The vast army of the commonplace, unable to understand her,\nwill claw at her like birds of prey. It is a pity that she must be\nbruised and beaten into the usual shape, as she surely will be. But the\nworld is a relentless potter, with inflexible ideas of how its human\njugs and vases are to be modeled; and it shapes us all, in a measure,\nin spite of ourselves.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf the question isn\u2019t impertinent, how old are you?\u201d he asked, with a\ncadence of melancholy in his voice.\n\n\u201cEleven; but I feel _very_ old sometimes. Old, old, old!\u201d\n\n\u201cYet you are not old enough to be writing of loneliness,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cAh; you think so? Can you imagine the loneliness of a child who is not\naltogether a child and yet not a woman?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere are your dolls?\u201d he asked, hoping to divert her mind from\nsubjects too serious.\n\nHer handsome mouth curved into a sneer. \u201cDolls?\u201d she echoed. \u201cDolls?\nPoor, miserable little images made by stupid people to deceive those\nthey believe to be stupider. Well, I have several. They were given to\nme by foolish friends who meant to be kind; but they live in boxes\nupstairs. I never get any good from them, wretched imitations of people\nthat they are, with expressionless faces and stuffed bodies. I prefer\nmy own people.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe lady of the picture and letter is one of them, you said. But of\ncourse they are not all grown up like her.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, they are, for I like grown-up people best. I don\u2019t like those of\nmy own age. At least I have seen but few whom I liked. The reason I am\nso fond of my own people, is because I make them myself, and so, of\ncourse, I make them to suit me. They are charming, and very fond of\nme. You would call them unreal; but to me they are more real than the\nflesh and blood people hereabouts, and much more agreeable.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! I understand now,\u201d said the stranger. \u201cThey are your own people\nin the sense of being congenial, companionable, of your own way of\nthinking. You have gone direct to a great truth, little friend. Our own\npeople are those with whom we are in intellectual sympathy, no matter\nwhere we find them.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut your other people,\u201d he went on, after a short pause, motioning\nwith his hand toward the house, \u201cyour family,--you love them, too?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; we don\u2019t love each other,\u201d she answered, frankly; \u201cwe seem not to\nfit well together--not to be thinking the same thoughts. The most of\nme is completely shut away from them. I cannot talk to them as I am\ntalking to you. They would laugh at me; they would ridicule me, and\nthat enrages as well as hurts me. And they are going away one by one,\ninterested in their own lives and knowing nothing of my dreams and\nlongings. Two of my sisters married recently and have gone far away,\nand last week my oldest brother left. I watched him out of sight as he\nwent down the road, with my heart almost bursting. So it was when the\nothers went. Everything was desolate without them, and they will never\nbe back here again in the old way. Not that the old way was so good,\nfor it wasn\u2019t, but I could not bear to see the end. I suffer if only\nan animal dies or is taken away. And I always wanted to love them; but\nthey did not understand.\u201d\n\nThe stranger\u2019s eyes grew pitiful, not so much for what she had suffered\nas for what she was destined to suffer. He saw her as she was, and\nas no other had seen her, none having the power to understand,--a\nsensitive, affectionate, aspiring soul, held for a time in a place\nalien to her spirit, among people most truly not her own.\n\n\u201cAnother,\u201d he said, mentally, \u201cdestined to travel the rough road that\nleads to the heights. Another with a dash of the weightiest gift of\nthe gods. I did not think to find one of the climbers of Olympus here.\nYet where none dreams to find them there they are. Poor little soul\ntouched with the wand of genius, already living in a world of her\nown creation, because the other world is ungenial and intolerable,\nand longing for sympathy, which is recognition, appreciation, and\nencourages expression, which is life itself. The old, old spirit in\nthe new body, not comprehended, often wounded, yet striving, striving,\nalways striving against hard conditions to tell what it feels.\n\n\u201cBut you have some friends of your own age among the real people--those\nwe call real--have you not?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; and I play with them sometimes in their way; but in a little\nwhile I am tired of them, and am generally glad when they are gone,\nso that I can be with the friends I have been telling you about. But\nI have one comrade of my own age whom I love. She talks very little;\nbut she understands. We often spend whole days together away from\neverybody. She doesn\u2019t fit into her family much better than I do in\nmine, but she is happier, because her family are kinder than mine. They\nlove each other better.\u201d\n\nThe stranger was struck with the simple and forceful analysis of the\ndifference between the two families.\n\n\u201cWhen people love each other they are kinder, as a matter of course,\u201d\nhe said, feeling that he was guilty of the stupidest of platitudes, but\nanxious to keep the young philosopher talking. \u201cBut your family love\nyou, surely?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d she said, decisively, the mottled eyes showing a flash of pain so\nintense that he turned away.\n\n\u201cWhat makes you think so?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey find fault with me all the time. It is a terrible thing to be\nblamed always and never praised. When I am grown, should I have power,\nshould I be able to get others to listen to me, I shall tell them that\nif they want to make people better they must praise them. Fault-finding\nhelps nobody. I am sure of that. It is the worst possible thing for\nme, for it fills my heart with rage and a sense of injustice, and of\ncourse it has the same effect on everybody else. I can see plainly\nenough what would make an angel of me, and angels of all others, too.\nLove and praise are what is needed. What couldn\u2019t I be and do if they\nonly loved me and saw good in me, and told me so. But to be nagged, and\nblamed, scolded, rebuked and humiliated incessantly is making me wicked\nin my mind all the time. I know how devils are made. They just take\na child, neither better nor worse than others, and put it some place\nwhere it hears nothing but blame all the time, never a word of love or\npraise, and when it is grown up it is a devil, ready to give back the\npain that had been inflicted on it. If it were not for my own people,\nmy thought people, I could not endure life at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cA bad case,\u201d said the stranger to himself, with a sigh, \u201cheart and\nintellect both hungry. I fear the road will be very rough.\n\n\u201cWhy did you let your friend Helen go away? Since she is your own\ncreation, why not keep her here at will, when you are so fond of her?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe is my own creation, but I could not keep her here. She has her own\nlife to live, so she went back to the world from which I drew her, for\nI do truly believe away down inside of me, that she is what you call\nreal. Just now she is in Paris, and she is a famous author, but not\ntoo conceited to love me and find pleasure in talking and writing to\nme. I was willing she should go away, as it gives me an opportunity of\nwriting to her. I enjoy writing even more than talking, sometimes. I\nget letters from her often. I have a box full of them. Of course I have\nto write them myself, but after they are written it really seems that\nshe, not I, is their author, and I enjoy reading them just as other\nfolks enjoy sure-enough letters that come from the post office.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you send letters to your people?\u201d\n\nThe yearning eyes became grave. \u201cWell, that is awkward. I leave them\nin queer little places where big, bad, real people are not apt to find\nthem--at the root of a flower, in the crevice of a wall, or under a\nstone--and persuade myself that somehow they reach their destination.\nSometimes I carry them clear to the woods and leave them in hollow\ntrees, or under great, cool rocks, where, perhaps, there are fairies or\nsome kind of invisible messengers who will transport them for me.\n\n\u201cBut when it rains, now and then, they are washed out of their places,\nand I find them all wet and blurred. Then a chilly feeling comes over\nme, and I am half afraid that, after all, my people have not seen them.\nYou see it hurts me if I think _nobody_ reads them. That\u2019s why I wanted\nyou to read my letter to Helen. I felt sure you would understand.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have many of these unseen friends of yours?\u201d asked the stranger.\n\n\u201cYes, many; but Helen is my only confidante. Of course I am not a\nlittle girl when I am with my people. I am grown up, and am important,\nfor I, too, am a famous writer, and I paint the most wonderful\npictures. Yes, I have great fame and the wisest and most distinguished\npeople are pleased to be received by me, and they--well,--they hang\nupon my words.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course,\u201d said the stranger.\n\n\u201cIt is beautiful,\u201d continued the child, \u201cto be treated with\nconsideration. When will big folks learn that little ones are human\nbeings like themselves, with the same feelings exactly, and that they\ncan\u2019t respect themselves if they are ordered about rudely, scolded,\nsnubbed and generally treated as inferior beings?\u201d\n\nShe was enjoying the first appreciation the world had accorded her; was\nbreathing the air of her dreams, the congenial atmosphere which is only\nfound where there are sympathetic souls to breathe it with us.\n\nThe stranger, understanding, thought of \u201chow widely yawns the moat that\ngirds a human soul,\u201d whose \u201creal world is always an invisible place,\nremoved from the rush and chatter of crowds, for the most important\nportion of life is the secret and solitary portion.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre your people all women, or do you permit poor, imperfect, earthly\nman to enter your paradise?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cOur world is made up of human beings, and of course that means men\nand women,\u201d she replied. \u201cIt would be a stupid place if it contained\nonly women or only men. But our men are men, not merely creatures who\npass as such, like so many one sees walking about here. And yet, I must\nconfess that the men of my thought world are not quite so real to me as\nthe women. I want to make them excellent, perfect; but I don\u2019t succeed.\nWhen I get them just so far along, I seem unable to complete them, and\nso they are more or less dim and shadowy to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, I see,\u201d said her listener. \u201cYour ideal of mankind is too high\nfor even your imagination to give form to. What are these men like\nwho still seem dim to you? Some of them are knights and lords of high\ndegree, or kings, perhaps?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; we don\u2019t care for that kind. They would be too conceited for our\nworld. We don\u2019t like fighters, either. We have great men, of course,\nbut they have earned their laurels; but even then they don\u2019t talk about\nthemselves, till they tire one all out like living men do. But we will\nnot have any who are not truthful, and then they are courageous, for\nliars are always cowards, you know. And then, they are kind, very kind\nto everybody, and they don\u2019t think themselves better than women. We\ncouldn\u2019t stand that, especially as our women are all so magnificent.\nI\u2019m one of them, you know.\u201d\n\nIt was beautiful to him to see her so frankly reveal herself as she saw\nherself. \u201cYour men do something, I suppose,--something more than to be\nmerely agreeable?\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cWe all work, but we dream too, and the dreamers are prized as highly\nas the workers if they dream good dreams.\u201d\n\n  \u201cFor a dreamer lives forever,\n  And a toiler dies in a day,\u201d\n\nhummed the stranger softly.\n\nThen in memory he turned to the past, murmuring, \u201cBohemia, thy grapes\nare sweet.\u201d\n\nHe saw again its hot and dusty highways, its tangled byways and the\nlong procession traveling thereon. One by one they passed him in\nreview, some with road-worn feet, faded garments and weary eyes; some\nstepping lightly, with joy in their hearts and flowers in their hands.\nThere were the hopeful, the mirthful, the witty and the merry. There,\ntoo, were the baffled and beaten, the hopeless and the joyless. The\nsuccessful went by with proud mien, and smiling face, and they who had\nfailed also bore themselves erect and smiled, that the world might\nnot dream of the pain at their hearts. \u201cTheir heads were bloody but\nunbound.\u201d\n\nGrapes grew abundantly overhead, but a few, only a very few of the\nmany travelers gathered them. He saw it all in memory as he had seen\nit all in reality. Now, as one by one the struggling, striving throng,\ndowered with the fateful gift of genius, passed again before him, he saw\n\n  \u201cTheir faces all showed suffering,\n  Though no voice uttered plaints.\u201d\n\nHow courageous they had been! How faithful! Not a few had met\nstarvation face to face, and even that dread sight had not power to\nturn them from the pursuit of their ideals. Again and again he had\nseen the bravest and brightest fall, their aim unattained, their hands\nempty, their names unrenowned, their hearts broken. But now he saw, as\nby a revelation, that the defeated were victors too.\n\nPutting his hand over his eyes as if to shut out the sight of the\nstriving, suffering throng, he groaned mentally, for here in this quiet\nspot, far from the great centres of life, was another getting ready for\na pilgrimage on the same hot, dusty road.\n\nThe child was the first to break the silence into which they had fallen.\n\n\u201cMy own people are somewhere in the real world, I am sure, and I must\ngo and find them,\u201d she said. \u201cI was singing about it to this dear old\ntree when you came, for when I go the tree will miss me and be lonely.\nWe are great friends. I tell it many things, and it answers by waving\nits branches over me--see, like that, and I understand.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are eleven years old,\u201d said the stranger, \u201cand are eager to go\nand find your people. I am many, many years older and yet have found\nvery few of mine. The search is long and sometimes heart-breaking, but\nit has to be made. But remember one thing, and forget it not, I pray\nyou. If you have some dream in your mind dearer than all others--some\nthought that burns to spring forth into life--be faithful to it, for\nit is your ideal. Follow it at any cost. Your story of the woman who\ndid not do her best contains a great philosophical truth. Somewhere,\nsometime we are destined to reach a state where our dreams shall come\ntrue, where we shall have the desire of our hearts, where we shall be\nin accord with all beauty and all good. But we can only reach that\nstate by doing our best every day--in little things and great. If we do\nless we shall have to do it over again.\n\n\u201cOne is with you who always knows. It is your soul--your real self.\nWhen you want to find your work, when you are ready to tell what you\nfeel, ask not the world what it wants, but say to your soul, \u2018What wilt\nthou have me to do?\u2019\u201d\n\nShe looked at him admiringly, gratefully, and said, \u201cI thank you. I\nknow you are wise, for you come from the big, busy world that I long to\nenter, and shall enter. There one can see and learn everything. Less\nthan a mile away two railroads cross each other. I hear the locomotives\nwhistle every day as they pass, dragging people after them. I shall go,\ntoo, some day, and then, and then\u201d--\n\n\u201cAnd _then_,\u201d said the stranger, sighing; but she did not understand.\nHow could she?\n\n\u201cAnd then I shall be happy,\u201d she added.\n\n\u201cYou must find me when you come into my world,\u201d he continued, after a\npause. \u201cPerhaps I am one of your own people. At any rate, the great\nworld knows me a little. Now I must leave you and go back to where the\ntwo railroads cross. My train was hours behind time, otherwise I should\nnot have had the pleasure of meeting you. I assure you I shall not\nforget you, and when you come into my world I shall know you for one of\nus, even as I know you now.\u201d\n\nThey had risen as he spoke. He took her slender, sunburned hand in his,\nbent down, kissed it and was gone.\n\n\u201cHe is truly one of my very own people,\u201d said the child to herself, as\nshe watched him out of sight. \u201cNow I am sure they live somewhere, and\nI shall find them and know them as soon as I see them, and shall be\nhappy.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER II.\n\n                        WHERE THE ROAD DIVIDES.\n\n  \u201cO Urania! the earth and the air and the sea\n  And the infinite spaces are vocal with thee,\n  And the sunset and moonrise seraphic with thee.\u201d\n\n  --_Ben S. Parker._\n\n\nThe tall young man alone on the porch walked slowly back and forth,\nlooking off into the sweet spring sunshine, with troubled eyes.\n\nHe stopped and his face flushed with pleasure as a young girl dressed\nfor the street came out of the door.\n\n\u201cYou here, Mr. Kendall?\u201d she said, interrogatively. \u201cYou toil not\nneither do you spin to-day? How\u2019s that?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause I am weary and fain would rest,\u201d he answered. \u201cYes, and I fain\nwould do several other things, too; but I dare say I shall not. But you\nhave been idling lately, too. Why so?\u201d\n\nShe shrugged her shoulders. \u201cLike yourself I am weary and fain would\ndo--I scarcely know what, and go I scarcely know where.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you mind my asking whither you are bound just now?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all,\u201d she answered, pleasantly, \u201conly I can\u2019t say definitely,\nbecause I don\u2019t know. I shall probably fetch up at the nearest open\nsquare where there is some green grass on which I can rest my eyes a\nbit, and either lose myself or find myself for a little while.\u201d\n\n\u201cMay I go with you?\u201d He made the request a little timidly, for she had\na high-handed way with him that made him a little afraid of her, though\nshe attracted him with resistless force.\n\n\u201cI shall be pleased.\u201d Her voice had a sincere ring in it that flushed\nhis face with pleasure. \u201cYou are always a good companion, because you\ndon\u2019t tire me talking too much.\u201d\n\n\u201cA dubious compliment, but I am grateful for it, nevertheless. Though\nif it be intended as a hint for me to keep silent this morning it will\nnot be taken, that\u2019s all.\u201d\n\nThey walked away together with the manner of persons accustomed to\nseeing much of each other.\n\nThe wide old streets had birds twittering in the trees, and sunshine\nwarm upon them. The air was soft and mild, and brought with it the\ngentle melancholy peculiar to spring, a melancholy that creates or\nawakes a strange unrest, and makes us long to go journeying to far\ncountries, we know not why.\n\nEach of these two were touched by the spirit of this unrest. They spoke\nof the beauty of the day, of the joy of idling now and then, so sweet\nto busy people, but soon fell into silence, for their thoughts were\nnot with their words. The young man\u2019s eyes became misty from time to\ntime, though his companion saw it not, for she did not look at his\nface. He was thinking that in after years he should often recall this\nwalk. On his mind he was painting every object his eyes encountered,\nthat he might treasure it as a comforting picture in the possible\nlonely future.\n\nAfter wandering about awhile they sat down in a tiny park near a\nfountain, and idly watched the water spraying in the sunshine.\n\n\u201cHow long have you been here, Miss Hill?\u201d Kendall asked abruptly.\n\n\u201cFour years,\u201d she answered, tossing a pebble into the fountain and\nshowing little interest in anything but her own thoughts.\n\n\u201cAnd I five.\u201d\n\nAs she said nothing, presently he went on: \u201cNow, I want you to do me a\nservice, a real service. I want you to decide a question, an important\nquestion for me, and I have determined to abide by your decision,\nwhatever it may be. Yes, I will do exactly as you say.\u201d\n\nExpecting a word or look of interest from her, he paused; but she went\non drawing lines on the gravel walk with her parasol, in silence. Being\nof the large, fair type of man, his face flushed with every emotion.\nJust now he colored deeply because of her apparent unconcern, but\ncontinued:\n\n\u201cThere are times in each life when it is necessary to do one of\ntwo things. Until we reach this point we get on very well, and are\nuntroubled by doubts. But when we have to decide whether to keep the\nright hand road or take the left, then we look about for something or\nsomebody to cast the die for us. The doing is always comparatively\neasy; it\u2019s the deciding that muddles and troubles us. Now I have come\nto the place where the road divides, and I want some help on the\ndecision.\u201d\n\nShe looked up at him now with unaffected interest.\n\n\u201cI am thinking that I ought to strike out and do something better than\nI am doing,--be something more than a cog in a great machine. I am\ntired of that. In the office over there\u201d--making a motion with his hand\nin the direction of the commercial part of the city--\u201care men who would\nfaint, I am sure, or weep like children, if they should lose their\nsituations, such cowards have they become by long dependence on the\nweekly salary. Some have been there years, and have given their manhood\nas well as their time in exchange for the money they pocket every\nSaturday. They act like slaves in the presence of their employer. If he\nhad bought them at the auction block they could not be more cringing to\nhim. When he is in sight self-respect withers and they are mere worms,\ncrawling in spirit at his feet. I don\u2019t want to become like that, and\nyet I am sure to if I remain. That sort of thing is contagious. No\nman can stand forever against it. I know just enough of the degrading\nfeeling to be willing to make a sacrifice to avoid familiarity with it.\nIn reality the wage-earner and the man who hires him engage in a form\nof co\u00f6peration, each to be respected by the other; but the relation\nis universally misunderstood. The employer develops into an autocrat\nand the employee into a serf, and so both are injured. To be an\nemployee too long is to become a dependent, helpless, pitiable being, a\ndegenerate man. I am sure of it. Believing that, I feel I must escape\nfrom such direful consequences.\n\n\u201cYet it takes courage to voluntarily give up what they call a good\nsalary, and go into the wilderness, so to speak, and take the risks\nthat all that implies. A ship sails from New York for San Francisco day\nafter to-morrow. I have been thinking I would resign my situation and\ntake passage on her. The territories are big and full of opportunities.\nI thought to go to one of them and carve out life for myself on\nbroader lines, if possible. I have a little money, and I can still put\nforth effort. As I have no family to consult--not a relative in the\nworld--and being on the fence, as it were, in the matter of deciding, I\nhave a fancy for leaving it to you and will do what you say. Tell me,\nshall I go or stay?\u201d\n\nShe looked at him with something like admiration shining in her eyes.\n\n\u201cGo,\u201d she said, unhesitatingly. \u201cGo, and be an individual, a fully\ndeveloped unit, a man, not a mere cog in somebody else\u2019s wheel. Cogs\nhave their uses, but they have also their limitations, and they are so\nplentiful. You can be a whole machine, if you try. Yes, go and be a\nfigure in the world, on your own account, not simply a cipher, useful\nonly as auxiliary to the figures.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood!\u201d he said, with forced emphasis, making a brave effort to appear\ndelighted, but in his heart wishing he could hide somewhere and take it\nout in a hearty schoolboy blubber. \u201cDay after to-morrow at this time I\nshall be aboard my ship.\u201d\n\nHe knew that her decision was wise, but it pained him that she was so\nready to send him. And then, there was the ordeal of parting from her,\na tug of war he could not calmly face.\n\n\u201cYou should go for the sake of preserving your self-respect,\u201d she\ncontinued, \u201clest in time you become like the slavish wretches by whom\nyou are surrounded, and also to preserve your life if you care for it.\nTwo years more here bent over your desk in dingy, close rooms, and you\nwill be hopelessly ill of consumption.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have thought of that,\u201d he said, \u201cand it has something to do with my\nwish to get away.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, when you go elsewhere, don\u2019t make the mistake of beginning the\nsame kind of life over again. Don\u2019t imprison yourself, and don\u2019t hire\nyourself out to any man. The air of the West will not save you unless\nyou breathe it fresh and pure. Live outdoors as much as possible. How\nhideous is this habit of herding in cities--hideous and hurtful! How\nsensible of you to think of going where there is breadth, freedom and\noutlook in all senses of the words; but I am surprised, because I never\nheard you express any discontent.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be honest, I had very little--too little for my own good,\u201d he said,\ncoloring deeply. \u201cIt has cost me a struggle to force myself to think of\ngoing. Don\u2019t forget that it is you who are sending me after all; but\nfor you I swear I should not go.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am sure I am doing you a service,\u201d she answered, \u201cthough I shall\nmiss you, as a matter of course.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you, what of your future? You advise me to leave this plodding\nexistence, where there is neither growth nor freedom, and go where I\ncan be more than I ever can be here; but you are passing your life in\nexactly the same jog-along way.\u201d\n\n\u201cI--oh! I, too, shall be gone some day.\u201d As she spoke she smiled,\nlooking afar off.\n\n\u201cIf I make a place for you will you come?\u201d he asked.\n\nThere was nothing lover-like in his voice or attitude, yet he loved the\ngirl beside him with a faithful, dog-like, worshipful affection. Not\nloving him, and not having a grain of coquetry or even vanity in her,\nshe had never been aware of it. Even now, when his meaning became plain\nto her, she did not make a situation of it, or give it the slightest\nshading of the sentimental. Entirely unmoved herself, she knew not\nwhat the avowal cost him, made in the face of defeat, as he well knew\nbeforehand.\n\n\u201cOh, dear, no,\u201d she said, simply, without a shade more or less of\nfeeling in face or voice. \u201cIf I were a man, yes, I would go; but as it\nis, no. Be grateful that you are a man and have no hampering, cramping\nsex limitations to work against in the public mind if not in your own.\nYou are free to go where you will and to do what you wish, and if it be\nbut half-way well done, both fools and wise will chirrup your praises.\nOne thing I ask of you. Throughout your life, never lose an opportunity\nof helping womankind to a freer, better, broader life. Do this in\nmemory of me, and if I meet you in the future, either here or on the\nother side of life--should there be another side--I shall not fail to\nthank you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI promise, and doubtless shall do more than that, in memory of you.\u201d\nThe last words had a quaver of agony in them, which she did not sense.\n\n\u201cI have been growing restless of late, too. Some day I shall be\ngone--perhaps before long.\u201d She looked afar off with dreamy eyes as she\nspoke, and Kendall\u2019s heart ached as he realized at last, that in the\nfuture of her dreams he had no part or place.\n\n\u201cDo not forget, wherever you may be, that I am always your loyal,\nhumble servant,\u201d he said, gently.\n\n\u201cI am sure of that, and I thank you,\u201d she answered, with kindness in\nher voice.\n\nIt was like the man that he did not try to relieve his almost bursting\nheart by talking of his love for her, even though it was without hope,\nbut he understood none of the arts of Eros, and was disciplined in\nrepression.\n\nIn truth, it was preposterous that he should dream of winning this\nwoman, and in a vague way he always knew it; yet he had dreamed. From\nthe day he first saw her she had enthralled him, an achievement of\nwhich she seemed altogether unconscious, though everybody else read it\nclearly enough.\n\nThey had met daily in their common home, a boarding-house, for four\nyears. They had enjoyed concerts, plays and lectures together; had\nwalked and talked together and been good comrades and yet had never\nagreed. Nothing under the sun did they see from the same point of\nview, and the topic upon which they thought alike had never been\nfound. In spite of this, Kendall patiently worshipped at her shrine.\nHad he not been of the steady, hopeful, never-give-up brand of lover,\nhe would have lost heart long before. But he had the confidence of\nthe self-satisfied and shortsighted, and a heart that held on to its\nfancies with the desperate clutch that wins sometimes when finer\nmethods fail.\n\nTo his credit be it said that while his devotion was open and\nabove-board, for all the world to see, he was never obtrusive. Early in\nhis acquaintance with his torturer he had learned to take a third or\nfourth place about her candle and make no fuss. He was at her service\nwhenever she needed him, and always out of the way when she didn\u2019t need\nhim.\n\nMany a night he had climbed to his fourth-story room, humming a\ncheery song, while his heart was being gnawed in holes by the monster\nJealousy, all because Miss Hill was chatting and laughing in the parlor\nwith some of the other moths who circled about her. When chaffed about\nhis ill-requited devotion, he laughed it off, and said he was happy to\nbe tolerated at all. To himself, as a matter of graveyard whistling, he\nsaid: \u201cIt is a question of waiting. She cares for none of them. When\nshe tires of them she may think of me. Meanwhile I think of her because\nI can\u2019t help it.\u201d\n\nHe kept this up for four years. Then a restlessness of spirit came\nupon him; the unseen forces of destiny began to work upon his mind and\nurge him to go forth, he knew not where. Yet how could he go out of\nthe sight of her, voluntarily? There was but one thing that would give\nhim the required courage, and that was to make her bid him go. Then he\ncould feel that, at least, he was obeying her, hence his little plan of\nhaving her cast the die. It might comfort him in the future.\n\nThe four years of their life together under the same roof rolled\nthrough Kendall\u2019s mind in panorama, and filled his heart to bursting.\nThe daily sight of the girl beside him had sweetened the days--had\nbeen life itself to him, for she radiated light and life, like a\nsun. That she did not love him, mattered little in that moment. The\nyears in which he had lived in her presence could not be taken from\nhim. Remembering this his spirit was lifted up, and the poor, common,\nselfish ambition to possess her vanished, and the joy of having known\nand loved her took its place.\n\nHe looked at her long, earnestly, adoringly, photographing her on the\nfadeless walls of memory that he might carry the picture with him\nthrough all the years to come.\n\n\u201cI want to make a confession to you, Miss Hill,\u201d said Kendall, when he\nthought the mental photograph of her was complete. \u201cYou have converted\nme to broader views, not by words, but by your daily life. I see\nyou filling a useful place, unaided, in a profession that only men,\nheretofore, to my knowledge, have attempted. You not only succeed, but\nyou excel most of your male co-workers. You make as much money as any\nof them, and you have more brains, and you command everybody\u2019s respect.\nThinking over these things, I am ashamed to remember that I thought\nI ought to vote, but women must be kept from it at all hazards. Your\nexample has enlightened me by taking some of the masculine conceit out\nof me. I feel small and mean that I in my insignificance should have\nthrown a straw in the path of women like you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am glad your mental horizon has widened,\u201d she said. \u201cIt will be\na pleasure to think of you as one of my converts. I may never make\nanother, unless, as in this case, it be done by example and not\nargument. I begin to believe that discussion availeth little. When\nI hear poor, undeveloped beings fighting the ideas that would make\nthem free, I do nothing to convert them to my way of thinking, I just\nsilently say, \u2018May God enlighten them,\u2019 for that\u2019s all that can be\ndone, and the enlightening process is usually slow.\u201d\n\n\u201cI remember now,\u201d he said, \u201cthat I haven\u2019t been able to draw you into a\ndiscussion in many a day. I suppose you saw it was a hopeless case and\njust simply prayed for my enlightenment.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; and it has come sooner than I expected. So now I am more than\never persuaded that argument is useless. None can be taught until ready\nto learn. \u2018Except ye become as little children\u2019--receptive, teachable,\nready for light--applies to entering all kingdoms as well as the\nheavenly one.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhile I am confessing,\u201d said Kendall, \u201cI will tell you that I used\nsometimes to take sides against you for the pleasure of hearing you\nexpress yourself--you do it so well.\u201d\n\nShe looked at him and her eyes made him ashamed, as she said: \u201cThat was\nnot kind. I was always in earnest. However, I am learning a little more\nabout human nature every day. I shall soon cease to be a Galatea, I\nthink.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; it was not kind nor honest, but I did not realize it until this\nmoment, and now I ask your pardon. Many of the offences of us men are\nthe outcome of ignorance rather than meanness. We know no better. Our\nconceit has stood in the way of our enlightenment. Forgive all my\nshortcomings, and remember my defects no more. Be a little kinder still\nand do one other service for me. Read me my future.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am no occultist,\u201d she answered, laughing.\n\n\u201cNo matter. I have a fancy for believing you are for the time being.\nTell me what lies ahead. It may keep up my courage. Since you are my\nconfessor, I don\u2019t mind telling you that there are moments when I feel\na childish cowardice about what I may have to meet, and wish I could\nrun away from it all and hide forevermore.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat recalls a bit of rhyme I read years ago which has always stuck in\nmy memory,\u201d she said:\n\n  \u201c\u2018What is Life, Father? A battle, my child,\n    Where the strongest arm may fail;\n  Where the wariest eye may be beguil\u2019d,\n    And the stoutest heart may quail.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis no shame to admit that one\u2019s courage is not always high. No one\nlives always on the heights. I know something about those moments of\nchildish cowardice you speak of; but there, I belong to the sex that is\nsupposed to have the right to be cowardly--we are even driven to it.\nCourage brings reproach upon us, while the more we shrink and cower\nand quail and complain the more \u2018womanly\u2019 we are said to be. What a\nfine outlook for the human race! But as to your future. Now I am an\nastrologer and must draw your horoscope.\u201d (This was accomplished by\nscratching several circles on the walk with the end of her parasol.)\n\u201cThere, the rings and dots and figures all mean tremendous things. I\nshall not weary you, however, by telling you the why and wherefore\nof everything. I shall stick to facts. Here goes: I see a journey by\nwater which ends where the sun sets. You will meet disappointments and\ndifficulties; will know privations and dangers, and also that most\ndreadful form of homesickness--the homesickness of one who has no home.\nBut you will overcome all obstacles and be what is called successful;\nyou will find your place and hold it. You will become bigger and\nstronger in body and in character, and you will _never come back here_.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the indescribable thing called Happiness; has it no place in my\nhoroscope?\u201d he asked, after a pause.\n\n\u201cIs it not included in the thing called Success?\u201d she answered. \u201cCan\nthe defeated be happy?\u201d\n\n\u201cOn the whole your reading is not half bad, as the English say, when\nthey want to compliment a thing, and I believe in it.\u201d Yet he sighed\nas he spoke. The promised success was not alluring, meaning as it did,\nlifelong separation from the sun that warmed his life.\n\nStill he was in dead earnest when he said he believed in her\nprophecies. Long ago he had made up his mind that this girl was his\nfate--not in the sense that she was likely to unite her life to his.\nHe had never been honestly hopeful of that in spite of his steady\nperseverance; but it seemed to him that in some way she was to direct\nhis life, to be the star of his destiny, as it were. And never was that\nbelief stronger upon him than now when he knew that the end of their\ndaily association had come.\n\nRising, she said, \u201cLet us each cast a pebble in the pool of this\nfountain and see whose circles will last longer.\u201d\n\nAs they watched the rings widen, multiply and vanish until those made\nby her pebble had obliterated his, he said,\n\n\u201cThere! Your spirit will trouble the waters of life to greater purpose\nthan mine and longer. It needs no divination to tell that.\u201d\n\nWhen they went back to the house they met Westfield coming out. \u201cWill\nshe eventually throw herself away on him?\u201d was the query Kendall put to\nhimself.\n\nAt the breakfast table next morning Kendall\u2019s chair was vacant, and the\nplace was to know him no more under the sun.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER III.\n\n                      CONFIDENCES AND QUESTIONS.\n\n  \u201cToo weak to change, though a mental hell\n    To me the r\u00f4le of clown;\n  A coward bound by a self-wrought spell,\n  I wait the sound of the prompter\u2019s bell\n    Which rings the curtain down.\u201d\n\n\nSunday\u2019s restfulness was in the air. Miss Hill and Westfield sat in the\nshade of the great tree in the yard, with books and newspapers about\nthem. Nothing was more delightful to Westfield than to hear her read\naloud. She had a voice of great natural sweetness, with no artificial\nnotes in it. In truth there was no artifice in her character.\n\nThe man beside her to-day was one of whom poor Kendall had often\nbeen bitterly jealous, a man of finer fibre than his rival, greater\ncharm and graver defects. Older, he was also wiser, particularly in\nmelancholy wisdom.\n\n\u201cRead me something,\u201d he said, \u201csome wild wail from a tortured poet.\nThere are always plenty, and I like \u2019en, no matter how woful they are.\nGod bless the poets every one, high and humble. They help us out in the\ndreary business of life.\u201d\n\nShe read:\n\n  \u201cWhite-footed the snow comes,\n    O\u2019er the hills of beauty,\n  Treading like a penitent\n    Rough paths of duty.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat an exquisite figure,\u201d--he interrupted,--\u201cthe personification of\nthe snow, with white feet, like a penitent.\u201d He had once made a bright\nmark in the world of letters, then ceased to strive and later ceased to\ncare, so it might be supposed that his commendation was of some value.\n\n\u201cMiss Hill,\u201d he said, with sudden animation, \u201cwhat are you going to do\nwith your life?\u201d\n\n\u201cLive it, if I am permitted.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have my dreams.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf what?\u201d\n\nShe smiled, looking far away, but kept silence.\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t make you out,\u201d he said, a little peevishly. \u201cI believe you\nhave genius for literature, yet you seem to be perfectly indifferent\nabout cultivating it. Were you like others one might suppose that love\nand marriage made up your dreams; but you are as indifferent to lovers\nas to possible fame. I don\u2019t understand you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, it isn\u2019t worth while to bother about me,\u201d she said. \u201cI shall be\ngone some day.\u201d\n\n\u201cI fear you will,\u201d he answered, with feeling; \u201cI have thought of it a\nthousand times, and dreaded to enter the house, lest I should not find\nyou there. A sense of your impermanence is always with me. You don\u2019t\nbelong here in any sense, and I fear that Fate will not let you stay\nmuch longer. There is an unreality about your being here at all that\nis like the experiences we have when we sleep, real enough while they\nare occurring, but unreal to remember. Yes, you will be gone some day.\nTherefore, I shall take Fate by the forelock and go first, that I may\nnot be here when you leave. I could not endure that. The very sight of\nthe old house and this tree would then be intolerable to me.\u201d\n\nHis face and speech were impassioned, but the girl saw it not. That was\nwhat made her so exasperating to those whom she fascinated. She seemed\nincapable of seeing that she could fascinate. The truth was she was\nself-absorbed.\n\n\u201cYou would miss me, I am sure,\u201d she said, in the most matter-of-fact\ntone, \u201cand I should miss you greatly, if you were gone.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere will you go to when you leave here?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cTo my own people, I hope,\u201d she answered, dreamily, her eyes wandering\naway to the horizon.\n\n\u201cTell me about them,\u201d he begged. \u201cI have often tried to lead you to\ntalk of them, but you never would. You are a tell-all, tell-nothing\nsort of person. Others do not notice that, but I do, and have woven\nsome theories about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI dare say they do me great honor, but in all probability they are far\nfrom true.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, why will you not tell me about yourself?\u201d he asked, in an\ninjured tone.\n\n\u201cYou talk as though I have been making history on this planet for\nages. I am young; what could I have to tell that would satisfy your\nexpectation of the extraordinary. You have known me here in this house\nfor more than two years. As the Indians in the old story-books say,\nwe have \u2018eaten salt together daily,\u2019 and we have walked and talked\ntogether with the freedom of children. What is there of me still\nunrevealed?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he said, \u201cbut I feel there is something--a part of you\nand your experiences from which I and others are shut out, and that\npart is the greatest part of you. I argue that, because, although you\nattract many, myself, poor moth, among them, no one gets near to you.\nAn invisible but formidable wall surrounds you, from which all our\nattempted gallantries rebound like arrows which strike rocks. And there\nyou are behind it, always smiling and agreeable, but entirely unmoved\nand secure. Now, somebody or some experience built that wall, for it is\nnot in the nature of things for it to be there without cause.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo on,\u201d she said, smiling, as he waited for her to speak. \u201cYou will\nend by being a great architect yet. How like magic you put up that\nwall.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou may chaff as much as you please,\u201d he said, a little savagely, \u201cbut\nI am not to be put off that way. Now that I have begun I am going to\nsay some things seriously and you must hear them seriously.\u201d\n\n\u201cI told you to go on,\u201d she said, composedly.\n\n\u201cAnd so I will,\u201d he grumbled, \u201cthough I know perfectly well that it\nwould be manlier if I kept silence. As you say, we have eaten and\nwalked and talked together as freely as children for more than two\nyears. In that time we have become well acquainted--not the poor,\nshallow acquaintance of formal society, but the near, intimate\nassociation of two human beings who honestly express themselves to each\nother. The result of this comradeship is that I love you. I will not\nsay I have learned to love you, for something of the fact was clear to\nme the very first time I saw you. In all probability you don\u2019t remember\nthe incidents of that day at all, but I do. Brooks, our good host, as\nyou know, is my old friend. I had drifted to this city in an aimless\nway, as I had been drifting for years. He met me and brought me home to\ndinner with him. I have always adored intellect in man or woman. One\nlook into your eyes told me that you are of uncommon endowments. Then,\nalong with a beautiful but simple stateliness of manner, you have\ncertain childish graces of which you are unconscious. You have never\nput your childhood entirely away from you. I particularly noticed the\ncorrect school-girlish arrangement of your knife and fork at the end\nof the dinner, and was charmed by it. After we left the table I said\nto Brooks that you had wonderful eyes. He agreed with me, but warned\nme not to let them undo me, because he said you were constructed on a\nnovel plan, one man being the same as another to you, and all being as\nnothing.\n\n\u201cI paid no attention to his warning, as you see. On the contrary, when\nhe went to the _Times_ office and secured me a situation, I accepted\nit gratefully, because I could then become a member of his household\nand see you every day. I have loved you ever since, and have had much\nquiet joy in it, and it has bettered me in many ways. I know perfectly\nwell--I have always known--that you do not love me, and in my least\nselfish moments I am glad of it, because I have nothing to offer\nyou that is fit for you to accept. I would not tell you that I love\nyou--never a word of it--were I not sure that it will not hurt you.\nIn the years to come the memory of it may comfort you. It is a great\ncomfort to me now, hopeless as it is. It helps me only to tell it. O\nmy child, my heart has long been sick and sore from bruises the like\nof which I pray you may never know. We men are set up to be so strong\nand pretend to be so self-satisfied, but we are only grown-up children\nafter all. When we are sore in spirit we long for some loving woman\nsoul to take us to her arms and pet and soothe us mother-like, yet we\noften live our lives without it.\n\n\u201cI am fifteen years older than you, and know the world well--better\nthan I wish I did--so well that I should like to protect you from its\nugly phases. Yet I am powerless to do it. Never did I so deeply lament\nmy aimless, wasted life as now, when I see myself with nothing to offer\nyou and yet loving you with all my heart. Sometimes, since I have known\nyou, I have dreamed that with your help I could pull myself together\nand make something of my life yet; but the dream is only temporary--it\nflees, the reaction comes and I sink back to the _r\u00f4le_ of a nobody\nwhich I have long been playing, and doubtless shall play to the end--an\nend that I may make for myself any day.\n\n\u201cTo say that I despise myself for being the wretched failure I am is\nto express myself but lamely. My love has in it an element of the\npaternal. I am not thinking so much of what you might be to me, but\nof what I earnestly wish I might be to you. I long to shield you from\nthe infinite horror of the experience we call life, as it is revealed\nto many. You are like a tall young pine-tree standing alone on a high\nrugged and rocky mountain side, enjoying the sunshine and swaying\ngently in the summer breeze, not knowing that the winter of the future\nwill bring storms that may tear its roots from the earth. You know not\nyour own value, that is the danger. Some day you may give your love and\nhave your heart broken. That\u2019s what happens to strong souls usually,\nand you are one of them. I know the answer to the woman poet\u2019s question:\n\n  \u201c\u2018Is it so, O Christ in heaven, that the highest suffer most?\n  That the strongest wander farthest, and most hopelessly are lost?\n  That the mark of rank in nature is capacity for pain,\n  And the anguish of the singer, makes the sweetness of the strain?\n\n  \u201c\u2018I have many things to tell you, but ye cannot bear them now.\u2019\n\n\u201cYes, I know the answer to that, and it makes me anxious about your\nfuture. Behold the pitiful spectacle of a man who loves a woman, tells\nher of it, and yet confesses himself a hopeless failure.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut why do you insist upon considering yourself a failure?\u201d asked Miss\nHill. \u201cYou are not old, you have good health, education, ability, the\nnecessary ingredients for achievement.\u201d\n\n\u201cChild, you do not understand. How could you? the ruin is within, not\nvisible on the outer walls.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; I do not understand,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cI will tell you,\u201d he said, \u201chow I came to be a loiterer in the race,\nwhat\n\n            \u201c\u2018----wrought my woe,\n  In the diamond morning of long ago,\u2019\n\nas the song says. You see I began by asking you about yourself, and,\nwith the artless art that distinguishes you, with scarcely a word, you\nhave switched me off the track I had taken and set me talking about\nmyself instead. I shall lose in your respect after I tell my story, as\na matter of course, but I would rather you knew it.\n\n\u201cYears ago, in the days when the earth was new and sweet to me--in\nthe mountain-moving period of life, the tragedy began. I loved, and\nlike the lover of Annabel Lee I may say that the angels of heaven\ncoveted the love of her and me. I was one of the editors of the most\nprosperous daily newspaper in the city that was my home, my uncle being\nits proprietor. He had no children of his own, and had brought up my\nbrother and me, our parents having died, when we were very little.\n\n\u201cA sensational criminal trial was before the courts of a distant city,\nand it was arranged that I was to attend it and send daily letters to\nmy journal. As it promised to last several weeks, the separation from\nEmma looked unendurable. I must marry her and take her with me. But\nwhen I told my plan to her she said she couldn\u2019t leave her father, who\nwas old, feeble and almost blind, with nobody else to care for him. In\nmy selfishness I had forgotten him. \u2018I cannot go with you,\u2019 she said,\n\u2018but I am willing to marry you before you go. It will comfort me while\nyou are gone just to know that I am your wife.\u2019\n\n\u201cSo we married, telling no one but Emma\u2019s father. The secrecy was\nneedless and foolish, but when young we are all more or less enslaved\nby the ways of others, and this was too violent a departure from custom\nto be proclaimed just then.\n\n\u201cOurs was an unusual but not unhappy honey-moon. We wrote every day,\nlong, glowing letters, and annihilated distance with our thought.\n\n\u201cBut one day a telegram came announcing that my wife had been\nmurdered--struck down in her own home, in the light of day, in the\npresence of her helpless old father.\n\n\u201cBehind the dreadful deed was the usual crazy rejected suitor. I knew\nthe wretched boy well--he was but a boy--but never dreamed of the\nghastly possibilities within his crooked mind. But what know we of any\none? Who is safe from treating the community to a hideous sensation?\n\n\u201cHe had long been fond of Emma, but lost hope when he saw that my\nattitude toward her was an assured one. But after I went away he got\nit into his crazy head that we had quarreled, and took heart again.\nWhen he implored her to marry him, and she refused without telling him\nthat she was already married, he shot her dead and then shot himself.\n\n\u201cHorror, grief, and remorse overwhelmed me. I blamed myself. Why had\nI not announced the marriage at once? Had the wretched boy known that\nEmma was my wife, he would have let her alone, I am sure. What did\nit avail that I put a tablet at her grave bearing the name of Emma\nWestfield? Humble as was the name it might have protected her had it\nbeen openly bestowed upon her.\n\n\u201cThis happened ten years ago, before my friend Brooks, our host, ever\nmet me. He knows nothing of it--doesn\u2019t dream that I ever was married.\nTo speak of it would oblige me to enter into explanations, to uncover\nmy heart to gratify curiosity, which, however kindly meant, is always\npainful to a sore spirit. I tell you that you may understand I have\nat least the shadow of an excuse for being what I am, a man without\npurpose, a withered, useless branch of the human tree, waiting for the\nman with the pruning knife to come and cut me down.\n\n\u201cSee the irony of fate. A few days after my wife\u2019s death, my uncle\ndied, leaving all his property to my brother and me. We were now owners\nof the newspaper on which we had worked as employees, and of other\nvaluable interest besides. It only emphasized my misery. Of all my\npossessions I could give nothing to the woman I loved--nothing but a\nstone at the end of a little heap of earth.\n\n\u201cIt might have been better for me had I not inherited my uncle\u2019s\nproperty, for it enabled me to idle away my time and indulge my selfish\ngrief, until my will became enfeebled, and that means the crumbling of\nthe whole character, which goes to pieces like an old wall.\n\n\u201cI went away, wandering over the earth aimlessly, not trying to benefit\nby travel, only hoping to make new scenes blot out the old, unbearable\nones. I spent years in the vain effort to run away from myself. I am\nstill engaged in that hopeless effort, though I have learned that it\ncan\u2019t be done. We take our world with us wherever we go--heaven and\nhell bring both within us.\n\n\u201cI am but a morbid idler, who has lost the qualities that give a man a\nplace among men. Though I never tried to stifle memory and misery in\ndebauchery, my money melted away. The coarse pleasures many men pursue\nnever had charms for me, but my destruction was none the less sure. It\nhas come without degradation, I am thankful to say, save that which any\nman must feel who has let himself slide down hill so far he never can\nclimb up again.\n\n\u201cOnce only since that dreadful thing happened have I accomplished\nanything. I braced myself against my inner foes long enough to write\nthe little book you know. It gave me fame enough for a foundation for\nfuture work, had I followed it up; but I didn\u2019t. I fell immediately\nback into the clutches of the miserable devils who possessed me--made a\ncomplete and inglorious surrender to them for all time, caring naught\nwho wins the prizes in the hateful race of life.\n\n\u201cMy story proves me a contemptible weakling. I know I am not a whit\nabove the cheap hero of the old-time, pirate novel, the fellow who does\nthe gloomy, manages to look as though the hand of Fate was ever upon\nhim, and has a secret sorrow as big as an omnibus, which he wants all\nthe world to know. I am not made of the right kind of stuff or I should\nnot have given up at the first blow of Destiny. \u2018Man yields himself not\nto the angels nor even unto Death itself, save through the weakness of\nhis own poor will.\u2019\n\n\u201cHad Emma\u2019s father lived, the care of him might have proved a prop to\nme, but the shock killed him, and he died a few weeks after she did.\nI had my brother, younger than myself, and we loved each other, but I\nargued that he did not need me, and left him. He loves me still and\nfollows me with the kindest, dearest letters, and is always begging\nme to come back to him; but I will not be a cloud upon his happiness\nand prosperity. Yet his sympathy and yours are all that is left in the\nworld precious to me.\n\n\u201cMy love for you is different from my early love. In that day the\ncastles I constructed were very worldly ones. Now, I have no worldly\nambitions whatever. It seems to me that by some kind of kinship of\nsoul, if there is such a thing as soul, you belong to me, and never\ncan be taken from me, though our lives may be widely separated. If you\nwere the vilest and most degraded creature in the world and yet were\nyourself, I should love you just the same.\n\n\u201cAfter Emma went away I tried hard to tear from Death its well-guarded\nsecret. I wanted to know if the dark hole in the ground is the end\nof us all. I pounded fiercely on the very doors of the tomb, begging\npiteously for an answer. None came. No; never a word came out of the\nsilence into which she had gone. The people who say they believe in\na hereafter quote at us those exasperating scriptural questions: \u2018O\nDeath, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?\u2019 I can answer\nthem. The sting is here, in my heart. The victory is over all my hopes,\ndreams and ambitions. People who believe! Are there any such? They only\nsay they believe. It is all mere mouthing. Can any man believe that\nwhich he does not know? Their twaddle about faith and heaven enraged\nme. I wanted proof, proof--though but a whispered word, the faintest\ntouch of a vanished hand, or the tiniest scratch of a familiar pen.\nProof! Proof! Oh for the proof that she lived somewhere. Had I had that\nI could have laughed long and loud at Death, the liar and the cheat.\nThe merest thread of a rope would have served for me to hold to, I was\nso eager to believe. But nobody let it down to me--not then, nor in all\nthe years since.\n\n\u201cYet now, in spite of all that, when I look at you, I cannot persuade\nmyself that you are to die--to cease from living. You carry with you\na conviction of immortality. Your intense individuality seems like a\ndeathless thing. It reminds me of the words of the young Greek in the\ndrama of Ion. When his life was to be sacrificed, his beloved asks if\nthey shall meet again. He says, \u2018I have asked that dreadful question of\nthe hills that look eternal--of the streams that flow forever--of the\nstars among whose fields of azure my raised spirit has walked in glory.\nAll are dumb. But as I gaze upon thy living face, I see something in\nthe love that lights its beauty which cannot wholly perish. We shall\nmeet again, Clemanthe?\u2019\n\n\u201cWhat answer have you for the question? \u2018If a man die shall he live\nagain?\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cAbout that I think much, hope a little sometimes, but know nothing,\u201d\nshe said.\n\n\u201cNo; we know nothing,\u201d he echoed, with a sigh; \u201cbut it is something to\nhope. I have a fancy that the road is not long ahead of me here, and\nI may soon have a chance to know what there is or know nothing. If we\nhave an existence beyond this objective one, I may be able to help you\nfrom there. It would be helping you could I but come and tell you that\nI lived, would it not?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat greater service could you do me?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf I could do that I might do more. Who knows? Of course it is absurd\nto speak of helping you without explaining what I mean. Apparently you\nneed nobody\u2019s help. You are strong of character, self-poised, capable,\nsuccessful and fearless. I see all that, yet I cannot rid myself of the\nfear that you are destined to suffer much and will need the service and\nsympathy of all who love you. From life I have learned a little. When\ngreat strength is given I know it will be needed. And you are stronger\nin character than you know. I should like to save you from suffering,\nbut were I ever so rich and powerful, I know I could not do it. You\nmust meet your destiny, whatever it may be. As the Scotch say, \u2018must\ndree your weird.\u2019 Nobody else can live your life for you, for, alas!\nlife admits of no proxy. I have woven many fanciful theories about you\nand your past, present and future.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell me one,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cI will give you my favorite. You are not what you seem to be--not less\nbut more than you pretend to be. You have been tenderly reared and much\nloved. You are not here earning your bread because of necessity, but\nfor some purpose not thought of by those with whom you come in contact.\nHaving demonstrated your ability to stand alone, you will go back home\nsome day and be done with it. You are supported in whatever otherwise\nwould be hard, by the knowledge that you are free to turn your back\nupon it whenever you wish. Am I not a good clairvoyant?\u201d\n\n\u201cPermit me to ask why you think as you do about me?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause you give me the impression of not belonging where I find you.\nYou seem to be playing a part and doing it with exceeding skill; but\nyour real self is not in it. As you say, you will be gone some day to\nyour own people. And now that I have confessed myself a failure and a\nfool, I too, shall go away.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d she asked, regretfully. \u201cWhy must the men and women who find\neach other companionable be lovers or nothing to each other? I am fond\nof you, very, not in the sentimental fashion, but as good comrade and\nfriend. Why can\u2019t we go on just as we have been doing? That talk about\nloving me need make no difference.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are like a child about these things,\u201d he said. \u201cYou know not the\ncreature man in his bondage to selfishness. You credit us with the\nstrength of gods, and we are mostly such poor, ill-developed wretches\nthat if we want what we cannot have we must run away to avoid showing\nhow little we are masters of ourselves. But tell me what are you going\nto do with your life?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have my dreams.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf what?\u201d\n\n\u201cHappiness.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould it be offensive if I asked upon what particular brand of the\narticle you have set your heart?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe most commonplace one in the world,--the love and companionship of\nhim who is dearest.\u201d\n\nWestfield was too astonished to say anything. Was the riddle so simple?\nWas this self-contained, independent girl following the same everyday\nillusion that lured all other women? While apparently caring nothing\nfor lovers was she worshiping the one she carried ever in her heart?\n\n\u201cI will tell you all there is to tell,\u201d she said, after a moment, \u201cand\nthen you will understand.\u201d\n\nHe nodded assent, but felt his heart sinking.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER IV.\n\n                          HER STORY AND FATE.\n\n  \u201cWho reads the riddle right?\n    And who can answer why\n  These clouds sweep over our mental life?\n    Not you, brave priest, nor I.\u201d\n\n\n\u201cInstead of being tenderly cared for, as you imagine,\u201d said Miss Hill,\n\u201cI had a loveless childhood, though above all things I wanted to be\nloved and to be told that I was loved. I could have been an angel of\ngoodness had I had even a little love; but next to none was given me.\nIf parents only knew that by showing love for their children they made\nfor them a foundation of happiness which no after experiences could\nknock from under their feet, perhaps they would be kinder than some of\nthem are. But why speak of ifs at all? If we knew at the beginning of\nlife what we know at the end of it, perhaps we should never have to\nmake the journey. I have thought often that I could bear my trouble\ncourageously if I had sweet memories of childhood; but I have only\nbitter ones. Sometimes I have been unhappy since I have been earning\nmy own bread among people unknown to me before, but never, never for a\nmoment so miserable as I was always in the home into which I was born.\n\n\u201cI understand the reason of it all better now and blame nobody. The\nlaw was simply working itself out into its natural results. If I\nsuffered--well, who doesn\u2019t suffer as the mills of the gods grind,\nset in operation as they usually are by ignorant hands? My father and\nmother were natural enemies, who should have lived as far asunder as\nthe poles, instead of enacting a hideous, lifelong tragedy in the name\nof marriage. I am quite sure they hated each other energetically most\nof the time and bitterly the rest of it, yet they stuck together and\nbrought seven children into the world to suffer in a thousand ways\nfrom their incompatible union, and considered themselves virtuous in\nso doing. Yet, that is the kind of thing that passes for morality.\nLong ago I saw that it was a foul lie, and the direst foe to morality.\nWhen my eldest sister was married, and I heard the words \u2018What God has\njoined together let no man put asunder,\u2019 clinching the curse, as it\nwere, it set me to thinking and asking questions. Somebody explained to\nme that all husbands and wives were joined together by God, and could\nnot possibly be separated without going violently against His will,\nexcept by death, and that, of course, was in accordance with His will.\nI pondered over this with a heavy heart. Then God had united my father\nand mother. This dreadful work had been done by His hand, and I was\nwroth against Him, for every day I felt and saw the evil effects of it.\n\n\u201cIs it strange that ours was a loveless family? With no love between\nhusband and wife, could they be expected to love their children? Can a\nmother be expected to love the child who comes unwelcome to her arms?\nCan a father love children in whom he sees the features and traits of\nthe woman to whom he is hopelessly bound and yet hates? We were all\nvictims of violated law, so who was to blame? Ignorance! Ignorance,\nwhich is responsible for all the evil and all the suffering under the\nsun. In fact ignorance is evil, and evil is ignorance, nothing more nor\nless. You know Shakspeare says there is no darkness but ignorance.\n\n\u201cWe frequently have well-meaning persons say that ill-mated married\nfolk should stick together \u2018for the sake of the children.\u2019 Yet for\nthat very reason they should separate. Their children and children\u2019s\nchildren pay the penalty of their violation of the laws of harmony,\nand still farther down the line of the future goes the misery that had\nits origin in a hateful marriage. Pray tell me how is morality served\nthereby?\n\n\u201cIn addition to the discord that made our lives wretched my parents\nwere victims of the desperate struggle for existence, in which the\nfiner qualities were squeezed out. This so absorbed them that the true\nmeaning of home and family escaped them, and the material side of the\nsituation alone received attention. We were all wretched. It was a\nhorrible experience. There we were, not of our own choice, wedged into\nan unwelcome place and unable to extricate ourselves. We were plainly\ntold that whatever was done for us was to help make us able to take\ncare of ourselves. We were urged to be industrious at school, because\nlearning would enable us to be self-supporting. I never heard any\nother reason put forth in defence of education. This was dinned into\nour ears until life had but one meaning,--that of getting on in the\nworld. The problem ended there. The result, I need hardly say, was to\nmake us selfish. Instead of loving one another and sharing each others\u2019\nburdens, each thought only of his or her individual success, and the\ncherished dream of all was to get away--to go forth where there was\nopportunity.\n\n\u201cI was next to the youngest, a sister, an extraordinary little being,\nwho had brought with her traces of a wisdom not of the earth, and a\nrecollection of conditions and surroundings more to her taste than\nour jarring household. She talked much of a home that she had had\nsomewhere, and often wept to go back to it, nor could she ever be\npersuaded to call the place in which she found herself home. God knows\nhow alien and comfortless it must have seemed to her delicate spirit.\nWhen three years old she left us, such was her good fortune. At\nleast it seemed good to me even then, and when they told me the usual\nfanciful tales of wings and a shining heaven, I envied her.\n\n\u201cOne by one my sisters and brothers made haste to leave. So eager\nwere they to get away that some took the first matrimonial boat on\nwhich they could secure passage, and thereby made sad shipwreck of\ntheir lives. How I longed to be loved. When I saw other children\npetted and caressed my heart swelled almost to bursting. The result\nof my unsatisfied longing was that I took refuge in my imagination\nand there lived a life as congenial and blissful as my outside life\nwas distasteful and miserable. I surrounded myself with imaginary\nfriends whom I loved and who loved me--charming, agreeable, superior\npeople--men and women, not children. The misery that prevailed in\nour home had taken my childhood from me before I knew I possessed\nit. I early learned the solemn truth that \u2018each soul in what is most\nitself, in what is deepest and nearest, lives alone, and that there\nis more loneliness in life than there is communion.\u2019 I, too, like my\nlittle sister, suffered from a strange homesickness of the spirit, a\nlonging for sympathetic association, for companionship, in short. I\nwanted congenial air, \u2018that air which may be found everywhere, if we\ncan find sympathetic souls to breathe it with us, and which is to be\nfound nowhere without them,--the air of the land of our dreams, of the\ncountry of the ideal.\u2019 Plotinus says \u2018Our true country is that from\nwhence we came.\u2019 It has always seemed to me that far back in the past\nI lived somewhere and was happy. Now I am ever searching for the souls\nwho are in sympathy with me, as in that far-off time. They are my own\npeople, rather than those to whom I am related by consanguine ties.\nThey or their counterparts exist somewhere on the earth, I believe, and\nthe real business of my life is to find them.\n\n\u201cOne\u2019s own people! Think of what it would be to dwell among them, where\nsympathy met one in every glance, and love made itself felt in every\ntone of the voice.\n\n\u201cI was fond of study, was quick to learn, and when only seventeen was\nso far advanced that I felt ready to begin life on my own account.\nLike the others, I was restless to leave a home which had never been\nmore than a shelter to me. I had no dreams of marrying, and walking in\nthe same treadmill in which so many millions of women have worn out\ntheir souls as well as their bodies. I could never see why all women\nshould spend their lives in cooking and nursing children any more than\nwhy all men should till the soil, which was civilized man\u2019s primal\noccupation. I saw, too, very clearly, that women could never be more\nthan half-fledged mentally, or have any real influence in the world\nof affairs so long as they were dependents financially. They must\nachieve pecuniary independence before they could hope for wider orbits,\nas it were. To get an opportunity to carve my own way in life was my\nunceasing wish. So unceasing and earnest was it that it created its\nown fulfilment. You may put it down as a great truth, that a desire\nheld with earnestness, faith and persistence, will bring to the one\nwho holds it its object. \u2018Ask and ye shall receive\u2019 is a law that is\noperative everywhere.\n\n\u201cI held myself ready to do whatever I could find that needed doing, but\nalways in the day-dreams of my future I saw myself a successful painter\nand author, because hundreds of beautiful pictures danced before my\nmind and begged to be put on canvas, and thousands of thoughts and\nfancies flitted through my brain that I longed to share with all who\nwould hear me.\n\n\u201cI had a gift for drawing, but had advanced as far as I could go\nwithout better instructors than were attainable where I lived. One\nthing, however, I had, which was a blessing to my artistic sense and a\nsolace to my spirit. That was a beautiful landscape to look upon. As\nthe mental atmosphere of home was always inharmonious I lived outdoors\nas much as possible, and from the fine view the location commanded I\nextracted much profound pleasure.\n\n\u201cOne day I saw an advertisement in a newspaper to the effect that a\nlithographer in a little city fifty miles away wanted an assistant whom\nhe could train to suit his needs. The next day found me face to face\nwith the advertiser, talking myself up unblushingly. He was surprised,\nof course, that a girl whose frocks as yet came no lower than her\nankles, should want to learn an art presumably sacred to men; but after\nsome hesitation he engaged me, and I found myself launched in life as\nan independent, self-supporting factor. It was a proud day for me, I\nassure you. To the hardships of the situation I never gave a thought.\nThe chance to work was the wedge that was to split up the tree of my\nfuture, so I set myself to hammering upon it with might and main.\nMy pecuniary recompense was microscopical, but even that gave me no\ndistress. Such as it was I managed to live within it, and look forward\nto something better.\n\n\u201cThe lithographer\u2019s establishment proved to be very interesting to\nme. Some excellent work was done there, and some odd jobs of various\nkinds--even the engraving of spoons sometimes--all of which I learned\nto do. In fact I learned to do anything and everything there as well\nas anybody, and before long received a larger salary, though never\nanything very imposing. I considered the time well spent, however, for\nI was perfecting myself in drawing, and when out of office studied\nlanguages and read much. I was happy--happier than I had ever been in\nmy life, for I was out of the wretchedness that prevailed at home, and\nwas treated with politeness and respect by everybody.\n\n\u201cAmong the patrons of our establishment with whom I came in contact was\nMr. Doring. He made no particular impression on me, until an epidemic\ncame and his three children fell victims to it and died. Then as I\nheard considerable talk about his sorrow in the office, I tried to\nexpress my sympathy when next I saw him.\n\n\u201cNearly a year passed when the community was startled by the\nannouncement that his wife had died suddenly and suspiciously, and\nhe had been arrested as her murderer. As in all such cases, some\nconsidered the accusation preposterous, and others believed in it with\nvindictive energy, and clamored for his punishment. I was indignant\nat their gross cruelty and expressed my opinion freely--too freely, I\nwas told. He was tried and acquitted, but his acquittal did not set\nhim right in the eyes of many of his townspeople. They talked over the\ncircumstances, magnifying all the suspicious indications and inventing\nnew ones, and they treated him to cuts, contemptuous looks and other\nexpressions of malevolence, until they almost broke him down. You know\nthere are human beings who bitterly resent it when a sensation doesn\u2019t\ndevelop into the last phase of the horrible, and of such that town was\nlargely composed.\n\n\u201cA few days after his acquittal Doring came into our office and thanked\nme warmly for my kind expressions of faith in his innocence, of which\nit seems he had been told. He looked haggard and ill, and at sight of\nhim I felt renewed indignation at the cruelty of man to man, and I said\nso as earnestly as I could.\n\n\u201cAbout that time I began to notice something queer in the faces\nof people when they talked about Doring to me. I could not read\nit clearly, but that it was inimical to me I soon discovered. It\nwas something they pretended to conceal, yet really wanted to make\nconspicuously noticeable. It was a suspicion of a low order, but what?\nThe man was nothing to me more than any other victim of injustice. What\nhad I to do with him and his sorrowful affairs?\n\n\u201cI am intuitive and sensitive. As soon as I began to notice this\nunspoken suspicion, I began to look guilty. My face flamed red at the\nmention of his name or any allusion to the case. You can understand\nthat, but minds of a lower grade could not. They construed it as a sign\nof guilt, yet it was but the knowledge of their offensive thoughts\nthat embarrassed and unsettled me. To know that I was suspected made\nme look confused and guilty. It was always so even when I was a child\nat school. If a culprit were sought, I looked like one. You know,\nhowever, that most people are mere surface readers of others, and\nnothing in the world is so little understood as a delicate, sensitive,\nhigh spirit. I who was far removed in thought from that of which I was\nsuspected, crimsoned with horror when I encountered this base suspicion\nin the faces of those who harbored it, and it made me self-conscious\nand shy when I spoke with Doring himself. In short, it ate into me and\ndestroyed my peace.\n\n\u201cIn a little while the air grew black with it. All pretence of\nconcealment was abandoned, and significant looks blossomed into speech.\nThey said Doring and I were infatuated with each other, and that he had\nkilled his wife in order to be able to marry me, and that I had put him\nup to it. The vilest and falsest tales were circulated about us. The\nmiserable local newspapers printed thinly-veiled insinuations, and fool\nfriends came and poured abhorrent stories into my ears.\n\n\u201cThe brutal malevolence of their lies amazed as well as horrified me.\nI could not see what I had done to bring such an avalanche of malice\nupon me. You may imagine what I suffered. Alone, and with a heart that\nhad in it originally nothing but good will for everybody, this cruel\nexperience almost withered me for life.\n\n\u201cI longed to leave the accursed place which now seemed peopled with\ndevils. Driven almost to desperation, at last I went forth to find a\nspot untainted by the hatred that there had destroyed my peace. I came\nhere to Gougal\u2019s great engraving house, and with nothing in the way of\nhelp or influence from anybody, asked for employment and got it.--\u2018Ask\nand ye shall receive\u2019 being a true law. Here I have been ever since,\nalmost happy--at least not miserable.\n\n\u201cBut this is not all my story. The difficult part is to come. A few\ndays before I left Mr. Doring came into the office where I was at work\nand told me that he loved me. I was surprised and startled, and yet I\nlistened gladly, and the story sounded sweet to me. It seemed to me\nthat I had always loved him, though I don\u2019t know why, for I am sure\nI had not thought of it before. We were both victims of unjust and\nmalicious public opinion, so perhaps it was natural that we turned to\neach other for consolation, though I have often wondered since what\nit was that suddenly filled my mind with love for a man who, until\nthat moment was no more to me than any other. Are the words \u2018I love\nyou\u2019 so potent that they can create responsive love? In no sense is\nhe my ideal, but the feeling that came into life when he spoke those\nwords to me has dominated me from that hour, though I have never\nseen him since that day. I have wondered if he loved me before that\nscandal came upon him, and if, in some mysterious way, people found\nit out and constructed their tales according to their light on such\nsituations? Or whether their stories put it into his head, and if so,\nthrough what occult channels was it communicated to me? I am almost\npersuaded that it was brought about somehow by the accusations of\nthe community in which we lived. Somebody put out the suggestion, it\nreached his mind and there sprouted, took root and grew until it was\nstrong enough to transplant a counterpart of itself to mine, for ideas\nare transmissible, you know. Ah! if we but knew the mystery of mind we\nshould know all there is to know, perhaps.\n\n\u201cAfter I came away, Doring left too. He writes me constantly, and is\nnow urging me strongly to marry him. I believe that I love him, and\nthe knowledge that he loves me sustains me. Merely thinking about it\nkeeps me from being lonely. \u2019Tis said that love is life; that even the\nlove of a bird or a dog will keep a human being alive. You and others\nhave wondered why I am apparently so contented and cheerful and want no\nlovers, only good comrades. It is because my heart is anchored.\n\n\u201cAnd yet I shrink from marrying Doring. It would mean the stirring up\nof all the now stagnant pools of scandals. I am content to go on as I\nam, for a time at least, finding my joy in the thoughts of being loved;\nbut he is not willing. He says he has waited long enough--that the\nmatter must be decided one way or the other very soon. When I think of\ngiving him up, of putting it all out of my life and plodding on with\nnothing to sustain me, I feel that I can\u2019t do it. Unhappily, I am one\nof those miserable beings who are loyal by nature and cannot help it\nif they would. An affection becomes a part of me, and can\u2019t be put off\nwithout disaster to the whole structure.\n\n\u201cThis love has absorbed me to the extent of destroying my ambition to\nachieve something excellent with pen or pencil. What dreams have I not\nwoven around this central idea--dreams impossible of fulfilment, yet\nnearly as blissful as reality.\n\n\u201cIn a few days Mr. Doring will be here. He has written me that he\nintends to come to talk over our future. So you shall see him.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOne evening soon after as Westfield was returning to the house he met\nMiss Hill accompanied by a stranger. \u201cIt is Doring,\u201d he said, and\nhis heart sank. Intuitive moments come to all of us, when the hidden\nis revealed, when souls stand naked before our eyes, stripped of the\ncloaks and without the props which make them fair and imposing to\nordinary perception. Such a moment came to Westfield, and he saw Louis\nDoring with an inner sight to which everything was made plain, and as\nhe looked his face grew white to the lips and his eyes became fixed\nand glassy like those of the dead.\n\n\u201cGod help her,\u201d he groaned inwardly, as he passed on. \u201cThe man is a\nfool--a stupid, brainless, flabby character--a dull dolt with regular\nfeatures and a straight figure made imposing by the tailor\u2019s skill,\nand a selfish heart. Exactly the kind of beast that can dazzle women\nas brainless as himself. But how has he bewitched _her_? Why do I ask,\nwhen I know that the destinies of the grandest and sweetest souls, a\ngrim and perverse fate often rules? The \u2018highest suffer most,\u2019 the\n\u2018strongest wander farthest and most hopelessly are lost.\u2019\n\n\u201cHow can I bear it? It crucifies me to know that that wax-faced,\ntailor-made biped has been carried in her mind as a hero and\nworshipped. And now after years of deception he will destroy her whole\nlife.\n\n\u201cI see how it came about. The scandal invented by the community\nsuggested it to him--sowed the seeds in both their heads. We live under\nthe influence of suggestion of one kind or another all the time. What\nis the force of public opinion but this on a gigantic scale? The wretch\nhas sighed and maundered and posed before her about his sufferings\nuntil he awoke her sympathy, and he will hang on to her and will not\ngive her up because he is attracted by the magnetism of her strength\nof character. And she, deluded soul, idealizes him, endows him with\nsplendid qualities--in short, sees in him that which is in herself.\nShe will go straight to her destruction, and I can\u2019t save her. Until\nI saw him I believed the best of him; but now I _know_ what is before\nher if she should marry him. It will be like awaking from a blissful\ntrance--it will be just that. O my heart of light! O, my tall young\npine! The tragedy of your life is more than I can bear.\u201d\n\nGoing hastily to his room he made ready and tore away to the country\nfor a few days. \u201cI could not endure to see the creature again,\u201d he\nsaid, as his train pulled out of the station.\n\nWhen he returned everything was going on as usual at the house, yet\nnothing was the same to him, nor could it ever be again. He did not\nspeak of Doring to Miss Hill, but she herself went back to the subject,\nchiding him for going away.\n\n\u201cI saw Mr. Doring,\u201d he answered, curtly, \u201cand didn\u2019t like him. You may\nthink my opinion of him is colored by jealousy, but I am sure it is\nnot. I hope you will never marry him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I have not yet decided to marry him,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cIf you have not given him up entirely it will end that way at last.\nYou are merely temporizing with the situation, and it will master you.\u201d\n\n\u201cProbably,\u201d she said, wearily, and then they spoke of it no more.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNot long after, Westfield went away. When he was gone she felt a sense\nof desolation new in her experience. He was so good a comrade. Why\nhad he been so foolish as to leave? Could men and women never be good\ncomrades--only lovers, or nothing?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe days went on apparently as though there had never been a Westfield,\nthough the other members of the household thought Miss Hill was not\nquite like herself, that perhaps she was fonder of Westfield than she\nhad believed herself to be, and regretted him. Brooks was strongly\ninclined to this opinion, though when he talked with his wife about it\nhe drubbed Westfield soundly. \u201cBlast the fool,\u201d he said, \u201cwhat could\nshe do but let him go, even if she were fond of him? What woman not\nan idiot would think of marrying Westfield, who is simply a charming\nfailure, a penniless, indifferent, intellectual tramp?\u201d\n\nIn truth they were half right in their surmises. The old content had\nvanished. She missed the intellectual sympathy of Westfield, and Doring\nkept her restless with his importunings. She read his letters by the\nlight of her own integrity, and therefore saw not the rank selfishness\nof the writer, who was vain and dull, but persistent to a degree that\nmade him formidable as a wooer. He had recourse to all the selfish\narguments of little souls. He said he was so perturbed in mind that he\ncould not get on in anything, consequently in danger of financial ruin,\nand hinted darkly at suicide. A crisis had come to her. Forces within\nand without were wrestling over her destiny. Unseen hands were pushing\nher. At times she determined to marry Doring at all risks, and thus\nsettle the problem, but the decision did not bring peace, as decisions\nshould. A sickening sense of imminent disaster followed, and she was at\nsea again.\n\nWeeks rolled into months, and the chaotic misery of her mind was making\nher look worn and ill. A day came at last in which the genius of her\nfate cast the die.\n\n\u201cThe pursuit of happiness is a constitutional privilege, even for\nwomen. At least one has the right to choose the particular form of\nmisery one prefers. Now Fate,\u201d she said, \u201cI am tired. Take you the\nreins and guide. What I am to meet, I must meet, and no shrinking or\nhesitating will avail against the inevitable.\u201d\n\nAnd so she too, went away, never to return.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER V.\n\n                         THE END OF THE DREAM.\n\n  \u201cO shaven priest that pratest of souls,\n  Knowest thou not that men are moles\n    That blindly grope and burrow?\n  The field that is grey shall be green again;\n  But whether with grass or whether with grain,\n    He knoweth who turns the furrow.\u201d\n\n\nMiss Cartice Hill had been Mrs. Louis Doring six months,--a little\nportion of time, yet long enough to destroy all her illusions, and\narouse her from her trance. The man she had idealized and loved for\nfour years was a different person from him who was now her husband.\nDay by day the awakening had been going on, until his character\nstood revealed before her in repellent nudity, with all its pitiable\ndefects unconcealed, and the worst of it was that he was not ashamed.\nA brilliant rascal usually has some qualities that command respect,\nhowever abominable his knavish ones, but Doring\u2019s defects were the\ncontemptible frailties of a fool. His wife had expected intellectual\ncompanionship, but she found his even-featured face a mask over dull\nnothingness, a shield for the emptiness of his mind. When the full\nforce of this discovery came upon her it covered her with humiliation\nand destroyed her self-confidence and self-respect, nor did these\nqualities ever return to her in their former strength in all the future\nyears. To have made so fatal a blunder shook her faith in her own\nwisdom forever. How was it that she had been blind and now saw? Who had\nwoven the spell which had glorified its object from afar? She had been\nher own enchanter, though she knew it not. In him she had seen only\nthat which was within herself, until forced to see him as he really was.\n\nTwo days after their marriage her husband said to her, \u201cCartice, do you\nhave any money?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she answered, pleasantly.\n\n\u201cHow much?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know. See,\u201d and she handed him her purse.\n\nHe took it and counted fifty dollars. \u201cIs that all?\u201d he asked, in a\ndisappointed voice. \u201cAs you had only yourself to support you should\nhave saved money.\u201d\n\n\u201cI did save some,\u201d she said, turning pale.\n\n\u201cWhere is it?\u201d\n\nShe told him.\n\n\u201cI guess we shall have to use it right now,\u201d he said. \u201cSome business\nventures of mine have not begun to pay yet, so it\u2019s a good thing we\nhave this ready money.\u201d\n\nFrom time to time she checked out the little capital that represented\nyears of self-denial, until it was all gone. In the meantime she\nlearned that the \u201cbusiness ventures\u201d were airy nothings, having no\nexistence outside of empty words. What he had done in the past four\nyears she never knew, as he had nothing to show for the time, not a\nfoothold anywhere.\n\nThey floated about until her money was gone, without definite aim and\nwithout effort on his part to change conditions. To her it seemed a\nsteady journey to destruction.\n\nTheir marriage had revived the story of his trial for murder, and\nother dark stories were added thereto and published in vile newspapers\nthroughout the country. Some of these came to Cartice\u2019s hands by\naccident, and some by the foul designs of wretches who find pleasure\nin giving pain. In these infamous columns she saw herself described as\na bold and scheming adventuress, who had obtained an unholy influence\nover a hitherto blameless man, inciting him to murder and ruining him\nfinancially as well as morally.\n\n\u201cI have heard newspapers called civilizers,\u201d she said, \u201cbut such as\nthese should be called heart-breakers.\u201d\n\nThat experience did break her heart, since we have no other name for\nthe loss of all joy in living. It wrought a pitiful change in her.\nHer bright mobile face became set, rigid and unreadable. \u201cOh, but to\nhide from the eyes of men\u201d is ever the cry of the proud spirit when\nsuffering. When this cannot be done, it makes for itself a mask behind\nwhich its wounded pride and aching heart take shelter. The mask which\nCartice Doring then put on was so impenetrable that it repelled any\nmeddling with or probing into what lay beneath. It was her shield\nagainst that most merciless of all weapons, the human eye, and she wore\nit for many and many a day and could not cast it off.\n\nEvery heart, however self-sufficient its outward bearing, craves\nsympathy, that precious and potent power which holds the universe\ntogether, yet so little faith have we in the compassion of our fellows\nthat nothing in hours of anguish is so dreaded as their gaze.\n\nCartice\u2019s family discarded her. Being loveless by nature and\nworshippers of the Monster God, Self, they saw her position only in the\nlight that affected them, by the unpleasant notoriety she had attained,\nand showed no consideration for the poor victim of malice.\n\nWith all this came the humiliation of dire poverty. Her money was all\nspent, and they could no longer pay for the food and shelter they\nwere receiving in a dingy little hotel in a second-class city. For a\ntime she was kept from sinking under the avalanche of miseries that\nfell upon her by an illusion to which she held with the clutch of\ndesperation. That was her faith in Doring\u2019s love. Feeble of intellect\nand contemptible of character as she now knew him to be, she still\nloved him and believed that he loved her, not knowing that the power to\nlove is in proportion to intellectual capacity and moral development,\nthat a weak nature is as wavering in its affections as in other things,\nan easy prey to every fulsome word and smile from new sirens.\n\nA woman in the hotel made the art of flattering men a business and had\nhad many years practice in it. By way of recompense for what external\ncharms Time had taken from her, it had given her considerable skill in\nher art, a skill she seldom used without effect. Her method of erotic\narchery was of a coarse and common order, but as her victims dropped\nreadily enough, when she twanged her bow, there was no need to resort\nto subtler ones. It was her opinion that fine work in her specialty\nwas thrown away upon men, one and all; that nothing was too gross for\ntheir vanity to feed upon, and her experiences bore out her theories.\nDoring\u2019s symmetrical face and figure caught her fancy, and she leveled\nher trusty crossbow at him, and brought him down with the first arrow,\nan albatross to be proud of, she thought. Her work went merrily on, and\nthe unsuspecting Cartice saw none of it. More experienced eyes did,\nhowever. All the rest of the women in the house were aware of it, and\nsome of the bolder ones undertook the delicate work of opening Mrs.\nDoring\u2019s eyes. While they veiled their good intentions in indirect\nphraseology she would not see it, and when they came down to plain\nspeech she resented it as a thing absurd and impossible. They went away\nwith ruffled feathers, but predicting a day of doom for her in the near\nfuture, when something would happen that would make her see. They were\ntrue prophets, for the day was at hand.\n\nAs she was passing through the hall in the twilight she came upon two\nfigures clasped in each other\u2019s arms under the broad stairway. They\nwere her husband and Mrs. Parker, the distinguished archer. Without a\nword Cartice walked away from them.\n\nIn a few minutes Doring entered her room with the tittering, airy\nmanner of one who pretends to find himself in a highly humorous\nsituation.\n\n\u201cWell, Heart\u2019s Ease, you caught me flirting a bit, didn\u2019t you?\u201d he\ngurgled, making a stagy effort to be facetious.\n\n\u201cIs that flirting?\u201d she asked, in the most composed and polite voice.\n\n\u201cWhy, yes, of course. What else could it be?\u201d\n\n\u201cI acknowledge that I am so untaught in matters of that kind that I do\nnot know the correct names to apply to them,\u201d she said. \u201cWhat would\nyou call it had I been in Mrs. Parker\u2019s place, some other man in yours,\nand you in mine?\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense, child; that is not to be thought of.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, it is,\u201d she said, determinedly. \u201cMy idea of marriage, as I have\nrepeatedly told you, is perfect equality in all things, neither owning\nnor dominating the other. I give the fidelity of the heart and expect\nthe same from you. The mere outward appearance of loyalty, which some\nwives enforce with a club would be of no value to me. But the conduct\nreveals the state of the heart. Were I found in the arms of a man,\nreceiving and answering his kisses, it would be because I loved him\nintensely, devotedly; and I will not judge you by a lower standard than\nI wish to be judged. Marriage must mean marriage in the highest and\ntruest sense of the word, or nothing. Now that I know you do not love\nme, I shall not blame you, for love is not a matter of the will. You\nshall go free.\u201d\n\n\u201cHang it all, Cartice,\u201d said Doring, now thoroughly frightened, \u201cyou\nare not going to be melodramatic about a bit of fooling like that, are\nyou?\u201d\n\n\u201cA bit of fooling?\u201d she echoed, unable to understand him.\n\n\u201cYes. What else do you suppose it could be?\u201d\n\n\u201cI can only suppose that you love Mrs. Parker. Otherwise how could you\nhave had her in your arms kissing her?\u201d\n\n\u201cLove her? What rubbish. As if a man dreamed of loving every woman\nhe--he found it expedient to kiss.\u201d\n\nShe looked at him too amazed to speak. This was a revelation of man\nnature that was overwhelming. She was unaware until then of the light\nvalue many men set upon constancy and even decency in themselves,\nthough all prate loud about them as jewels necessary to the adornment\nof woman\u2019s character. She was a genuine Galatea, in some respects,\nexpecting to meet gods and shocked to find the world peopled with men\nand women of very crude minds. She was engaged in the difficult and\npathetic task of trying to idealize the actual.\n\n\u201cWhy should a man kiss a woman he does not love?\u201d she asked at last.\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d echoed Doring, beginning to think he could flounder out of his\ndilemma by a little bold bluster. \u201cIt\u2019s a habit most of us have got\ninto, I guess. In this case I made up to the old flirt because she so\nmanifestly wanted me to. That was all. I meant nothing by it but to\ngratify her vanity, which is on short rations just now, I fancy.\u201d\n\nThis coarse speech made his wife shiver with shame. The man was surely\nleaving her nothing to respect in himself. As she was silent he\nthought he was gaining ground and went on:\n\n\u201cThe idea of your being jealous of her! Why, she is old enough to be\nyour mother.\u201d\n\nMeantime Cartice had rung for a hall boy, who presently tapped at the\ndoor. Stepping outside she sent him to ask Mrs. Parker to have the\nkindness to come and make her a visit.\n\nThe archer promptly fluttered in, all smiles, believing there was only\nplain sailing ahead.\n\n\u201cDo you love my husband, Mrs. Parker?\u201d Cartice asked.\n\n\u201cWhy, what do you mean?\u201d snapped the enraged siren.\n\n\u201cI must suppose you love him, because I saw you and him kissing each\nother. I could not kiss a man I did not love, and I suppose it must\nbe the same with you and all other self-respecting women. I have been\ntelling him that if you and he love each other, I will not stand in\nyour way. I want to tell you the same.\u201d\n\nMrs. Parker was unaccustomed to this kind of a situation. She was only\nskilled in slyness, not in open combat. Embarrassed, she turned to\nDoring, who stood convicted and shrinking, unable to defend himself or\nher.\n\n\u201cMr. Doring,\u201d she said--her voice was dry and nervous--\u201cyou should\nhave explained to your wife that we saw her coming and made a foolish\nattempt to tease her.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe explains it differently,\u201d said Cartice, quietly. \u201cHe says you\nseemed to expect some demonstration of affection from him, and he \u2018made\nup to you,\u2019 as he calls it, because not to do so would be to disappoint\nand mortify you.\u201d\n\nThen Parker turned to Doring swelling with rage and chagrin, fire and\nflame darting from her eyes, and then, without a word flounced out of\nthe room, and early the next day left the hotel.\n\nDoring, a victim of the cowardice for which his sex is noted when\nentrapped, began to breathe freer. He sent a snort of derision after\nthe retreating charmer. \u201cThere, the sentimental old lady will not\ntrouble us again, I fancy,\u201d he said, with the air of one who sees the\nend of a disagreeable affair.\n\n\u201cThat may be,\u201d said his wife, sadly, \u201cbut it cannot put us back in our\nold places.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it necessary to explain what is so clear? This affair has changed\nmy attitude toward you entirely. It has killed my confidence in your\nhonesty, and revealed your character to me in a new light. I can never\nbe the same to you as before.\u201d\n\nThoroughly frightened he began to cast about for bigger straws to catch\nat. His wife took on new value in his eyes. An hour or so before he\nhad commiserated himself for being tied to her, and had wondered why\na being so superior as he had ever been attracted to one so ordinary\nas she. Now he wanted to keep her at all costs. He was one to whom\nblessings brightened astonishingly as they took their flight.\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t mean to say you would leave me for a trifle like that,\nCartice? It would be ridiculous. Everybody would laugh at you. Why,\nthat little episode is nothing. You should know some of the really\nreprehensible things married men do and think nothing of it. Men don\u2019t\nbother much about loyalty and the finer moralities, I assure you.\nThey\u2019re good enough for women, but men can\u2019t walk that kind of a line,\nyou know. Your ideas are too depressingly antique for the age you live\nin.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat men do and what other women accept cannot change my idea of what\nconstitutes marriage. I will not be a party to a contract kept only by\none of the two interested. I have seen women whose husbands violated\nevery canon of decency going on patiently, under the delusion that they\nwere doing a virtuous thing. To my mind they were encouraging vice.\nKisses represent feelings. One kisses because one loves. I could not\nkiss a man I did not love because it would be repulsive. One is loyal,\nnot because of a sense of duty, but because one loves; or disloyal\nbecause one has ceased to love.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnyway, Cartice, don\u2019t leave me or talk about leaving me. You are all\nI have in the world. Forgive me, and love me if you can. I feel mean\nenough without your contempt.\u201d As he said this, Doring flung himself on\nthe floor clasping her in his arms and began to weep.\n\n\u201cHe does not understand; he never will understand--he cannot. He thinks\nit is something to be forgiven and then to go on as before,\u201d she said,\nmentally.\n\nAnyhow she went on, but not as before. In that hour her love for her\nhusband had changed its form and face. It had become maternal. All hope\nthat they could make the journey of life as companions on an equal\nfooting was dead.\n\nNo more painful experience can come to a proud woman than that of\nseeing that the man she has idealized must be propped up instead of\nleaned against.\n\nThe days went relentlessly on for Cartice Doring, as days have a way of\ndoing for everybody. One trouble had grown to proportions so huge that\nhis hateful shape blotted out all the rest, and his name was Poverty.\nThe bread of dependence is bitter. Every bite to her was heavy as lead.\nCivilization has many tortures; but it is doubtful if it has any more\ncruel than this.\n\nEvery waking moment Cartice racked her brain in the effort to think of\nsome means of earning money, and at night when she slept her dreams\nwere full of horrors. Thoughts of the river obtruded themselves and\nwere driven away only to come back more determined in aspect than\nbefore.\n\nSomewhere she had read that if every suicide would but wait twenty-four\nhours after determining to end life, deliverance would come. So she\nwaited, and the worst depression would pass, and her courage come\nslowly back.\n\nMeantime her husband walked the street in his helpless way seeking\nemployment, returning at night with the story of failure written on his\nface.\n\nCartice had been used to a busy life, and the enforced idleness of\nthose depressing days was more of a weariness to both flesh and spirit\nthan the hardest labor would have been. In trying to escape from her\nown thoughts she sometimes walked long distances. One cold day she was\naccosted by a woman who asked her to buy some trifle she was selling.\n\n\u201cI wish I could, but I cannot, for I have no money,\u201d said Cartice.\n\n\u201cAh, don\u2019t say that,\u201d said the other, with incredulity and disgust in\nher voice. \u201cSo many say it when it isn\u2019t true. It is impossible that\nany one so comfortably dressed as you, is without money. Compare your\nwarm and beautiful wrap with my thin shawl.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is true I have a good cloak,\u201d Cartice answered, \u201cbut I am probably\npoorer than you, for I cannot pay for either my shelter or my food.\nYour position is superior to mine, for you are trying to earn a\nlivelihood, while I am longing to do so and know not where to begin.\nAnd besides poverty I have other woes from which I hope you are exempt.\nI tell you this that hereafter you may not judge from appearances. Many\nwhom you envy are, perhaps, more miserable than yourself.\u201d\n\nHer old childish fancies came back to her sometimes, and she would half\nbelieve that some good fairy would suddenly comfort her and mercifully\nchange everything. And her people--the dear, kind, fond, ever-courteous\npeople of her very own world, unseen by all who had not sympathetic\neyes, came to comfort her. The inner world in which they dwelt afforded\nher a refuge when the miseries of the outer one became too heavy.\nPerhaps it was because of much time spent there that she scarcely took\non the ways and speech of this world. There was ever something unusual\nand not easy to understand in her presence, something that suggested\nanother and a different world.\n\n\u201cO my own people, my dear people of my dreams! How far I have wandered\nin my search for others like you clothed in the flesh!\u201d she said, on\nreturning from a long walk one evening, as she looked at the dingy\nhotel where she was obliged to take unwelcome refuge.\n\nWithin was no soul akin to hers, not one whose words or presence, in\nany sense mitigated the deep solitude and loneliness of spirit in which\nshe lived.\n\nWith it all she was physically wretched. A climate that was ungenial, a\nsunless room and a daily diet of anxiety combined had made deep inroads\non a physique elastic but never rugged. Overstrained nature was giving\nway. For weeks her body had been racked with pain. Fevers came, tarried\nawhile and went away to come again, and languor had taken entire\npossession of her.\n\nOne day the culmination came. A neighbor passing her open door saw\nCartice lying helpless on the floor where she had fallen. Assistance\nwas called and she was lifted to the bed, rigid as in death. \u201cA\ncongestive chill,\u201d said the doctor. Then science and humanity united\ntheir efforts to save her from death and succeeded. When her husband\ncame back in the evening, she was lying powerless to speak and only\nfaintly conscious of being alive.\n\nThe doctor--may it be a star of great radiance on his breast in the\nunseen world in which he now dwells--was attentive and kind to a point\nfar beyond the ordinary. He had seen much of life and its inevitable\nsuffering. Experience and a heart of exceptional goodness enabled\nhim to read the signs of the sick soul as well as the sick body at a\nglance.\n\nA few days later as he sat by her bedside, Cartice edged herself\nnearer, and laying one of her slender hands on his, said, \u201cI am\ngrateful to you, doctor, very grateful for helping me so much.\u201d\n\nThe words were commonplace enough, but there were the eyes, the\nwonderful eyes, with their strange power to melt the heart, gazing into\nhis. The doctor\u2019s soul was shaken, he knew not why.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t understand it,\u201d he mused as he left the house. \u201cWhat was it\nthat came out of her eyes and unnerved me in a flash, making me want\nto cry like a baby.\u201d At the memory of that look, in which the mask of\npride fell off and the suffering spirit revealed its anguish, the tears\nrushed anew to his eyes.\n\n\u201cNo, I don\u2019t understand it,\u201d he repeated, \u201cbut if I had been performing\na surgical operation of the most delicate and dangerous kind, and she\nhad looked at me that way, I am afraid I should have dropped the knife.\nWhat was that indefinable thing I saw in her eyes? What was it? If\nanguish can accumulate for ages and ages and then look out through a\npair of eyes, it was that.\u201d\n\nDays of convalescence came, bringing the despondency, gloom and\nsometimes despair that attack those who have retreated from the edge of\nthe grave before they are quite out of sight of it.\n\nCartice sat by her window with the breeze blowing over her, and it\nseemed that a thousand years had passed since last she saw the spring.\nWatching the people on the street, hurrying hither and yon, she envied\nthem their strength, their activity, aims and interests. Idle and\npurposeless, weary and hopeless, she sat wondering what she was to do\nwith the rest of her life. By nature she was an outdoor child, who\nloved field and forest and brook and hill. The hateful brick walls that\nstared at her now fatigued her eyes and depressed her spirit. When\nfuneral processions went by she wondered what mystery the narrow black\nbox represented. Sable and solemn and dreadful as it all was she envied\nthose who rode in the long black wagon of death. \u201cAt least they are out\nof this horror,\u201d she said. \u201cIf there be another life its conditions\ncannot be worse than they are here. If there be nothing on the other\nside of death\u2019s silence, then the problem is very simple.\u201d\n\nThis great problem at the end of life always interested her more than\nall those to be solved on the journey. If death be an open door to\nlarger activities and happier conditions, then we should bear with\ncourage whatever comes upon us here, and go smiling on, indifferent to\npain and disappointment; but if all our striving and longing, sorrowing\nand suffering and loving reach a finality in the grave, then--no words\nare strong enough and bitter enough to tell the tragic story of the\ncheat.\n\nCartice had always marveled that many could see their nearest and\ndearest pass into that dread silence, and yet put the thought of what\nit is out of their minds, and go on pursuing their foolish little\npleasures exactly as though the riddle was not for them also to solve.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER VI.\n\n                            THE BUTTERFLY.\n\n  Well, may there not be butterflies\n    That lift with weary wings the air;\n  That loathe the foreign sun, which lies\n    On all their colors like despair;\n  That glitter, homesick for the form\n  And lost sleep of the worm?\n\n  --_S. M. B. Piatt._\n\n\nIn these trying days the neighbor who came closest in friendship and\nloving service, oddly enough, was the Butterfly of the house, Mrs.\nLayton. She and her husband had a richly furnished suite of rooms near\nthat of the Dorings. They received many calls, went out frequently, and\nappeared to find life well worth living. Mrs. Layton was pretty, was\nalways arrayed as the lilies of the field, and all male humanity bent\nthe knee before her.\n\nCartice\u2019s illness had revealed the unsuspected fact that the Butterfly\nhad a heart as well as a pair of gorgeous wings. She had been\nastonishingly faithful and kind in her attentions, and astonishingly\nefficient too, so that now, in the dull days of convalescence the two\nhad become close friends, the formal wall between them having fallen\nunder the pressure of suffering and sympathy.\n\nIt was the Butterfly who had sent for the doctor when Cartice was found\nunconscious on the floor, helped him when he came, and kept a watchful\neye on his patient afterward. Nothing makes such close friends as to\nhelp and be helped in suffering. We learn to love those to whom we do\ngood.\n\nCartice had always found a strange enjoyment in looking at the\nButterfly since she first saw her, she knew not why. Was she beautiful?\nYes, she had beauty worthy of a higher order of being than a butterfly.\nThat was the marvel of it, that she could be a butterfly with a classic\nprofile and the eyes of a mystic--eyes that could see through all masks.\n\nNow that Cartice knew her so well the strange attraction increased,\nthough she could not determine wherein lay her remarkable power to\ncharm. This power, however, was acknowledged on all sides, and many\nfell under its influence. Even on the street, women as well as men\nturned to look after her, though if asked the reason could not have\ntold it. The inexplicable quality we call magnetism belonged to her to\nan extraordinary degree; but who can explain what that is? It attracts;\nit compels planets as well as persons to follow after it; but that is\nall we know about it.\n\n\u201cMrs. Doring,\u201d said the Butterfly, one day, \u201cyou must cheer up or you\nwill die. Worse than that, you will make yourself old long before your\ntime. I know it isn\u2019t a polite thing to say, but you look five years\nolder than when you came to this house.\u201d\n\nThe aching heart of the other swelled almost to bursting. The faculty\nof unburdening herself by friendly confidences had never been hers.\nSomething within her stood like a grim sentinel forbidding all outlet,\nand though she yearned for sympathy, could not seek it nor meet it\nwith loosened tongue when it came. The instinct of repression had been\nfostered by a loveless, lonely childhood and lifelong habit. Not a\nword could she utter now, but the eyes, with their pitiful, wordless\nappeal, their unbearable burden, turned to the Butterfly, and in one\nnever-to-be-forgotten glance laid bare their owner\u2019s broken heart. Then\nwith a moan she fell forward, and the long repressed agony burst forth\nin sobs.\n\nThe Butterfly\u2019s arms clasped her closely, her tears fell over her, and\nthe words she spoke were wiser than a butterfly ever uttered before.\nThe greatest mind could not have devised a better method of cure for\nthe sick soul than the sympathetic instincts of this airy creature\nsuggested. From that hour between those two no fence or wall, or\nbarrier of any kind existed. They knew each other as we shall all be\nknown when the armors and masks our hypocritical social usages have\nforced upon us shall be laid aside with our clay garments.\n\n\u201cDear Mrs. Doring,\u201d said Mrs. Layton, presently, \u201cit is not necessary\nto tell me what troubles you. I know it through sympathy. You are\ngreatly distressed for lack of money. You cannot pay your board, and\nyou and your husband are strangers here. I dare say you never imagined\nit, but my husband and I are almost without a cent in the world, too.\nWe owe this house an immense bill for board, and I am afraid it will\nnever be paid, for every day the situation grows gloomier. It half\nkills me to go to the table, when I know that we are not paying for\nthe very food we eat, and I suspect you suffer the same way for the\nsame reason. Our outlook is as bad as yours, only we are not strangers\nhere and you are. Yet being known has its disadvantages as well as its\nadvantages. It is hard to be humiliated in the eyes of one\u2019s friends.\nSo far our difficulties are not generally known, but things too bad to\nthink of are ahead of us, I fear. You see I pretend to be sunny and\nhappy. I sing and dance and affect to be merry all the time--for that\nis the best way, though I assure you my heart often weighs a ton.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am astonished,\u201d said Cartice. \u201cI thought you a butterfly out and\nout, with no troubles at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cNaturally, I believe I am. I love the beauties and pleasures of life;\nbut nobody knows what butterflies are thinking about while they are\nfluttering around looking so care-free and joyous. I do the butterfly\nact now with a fell purpose--two fell purposes in fact. I keep others\nfrom suspecting that things are going wrong, and I keep myself from\ndwelling on my troubles. You must learn butterfly philosophy too. You\nmust go out and meet people and make friends, let yourself out a little\nand show what is in you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t, dear, for many reasons,\u201d and Cartice glanced at her well-worn\ngown, and thought of the hopeless condition of her wardrobe.\n\n\u201cClothes, eh?\u201d said the other, going straight to the point. \u201cDon\u2019t\nworry on that score, I am handy with a needle and can help you tinker\nup some of your things to look quite fine. I can toss up a delicious\nlittle bonnet, too.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I have no heart in anything,\u201d said Cartice. \u201cYou don\u2019t know\nall--no; you don\u2019t know all.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know more than you think I do. I know precisely what it is to\nbe pitifully disappointed in one\u2019s husband, to find that he is the\nopposite of what one thought him, to lose confidence in his ability,\nhis manliness, his loyalty and his love.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, that is the hardest of all,\u201d wailed Cartice, shaken to the\nsoul to learn that what she believed hidden was written in big letters\non the outer walls of her life, as it were.\n\n\u201cThat, too, you must throw off,\u201d said the philosophic Butterfly. \u201cThere\nare few wives who haven\u2019t had some of that kind of experience. For the\nmost part men are abominable wretches, their whole lives made up of\ndeceit and lies. It hurt me cruelly, cruelly when I found it out and\njust had to believe it in the face of not wanting to; but now, well--I\nhave taught myself not to care very much.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt seems to me that a wife only ceases to care when she ceases to\nlove, and then she ought to give her husband up entirely,\u201d said Mrs.\nDoring.\n\n\u201cYes, it is true; when one doesn\u2019t care it is because one doesn\u2019t love\none\u2019s husband any more. Of course, it would be honester, more moral\nand self-respecting to leave him, but we women are mostly tied up by\ndifferent kinds of chains, so that no matter how wide our eyes are\nopened we usually go right on pretending we don\u2019t see, and so become\nhypocrites, too. The whole fabric seems to be pretty much a warp and\nwoof of lies. But I don\u2019t puzzle much over problems as big and hard as\nthat. I haven\u2019t the head for it. I just edge along the easiest way I\ncan, and leave the things I don\u2019t understand, and couldn\u2019t set right if\nI did, for others to puzzle over and fix up if they can.\u201d\n\nCartice was astonished at the Butterfly\u2019s hard trials and airy method\nof ignoring them. We are always astonished to learn that another has\nhad the same kind of a load to carry that we have borne, all the more\nif that other has carried it gaily. It is common to believe our own\nexperiences unique.\n\n\u201cYou are ever so much cleverer than I when it comes to things learned\nout of books,\u201d Mrs. Layton went on, \u201cI have very little of what they\ncall learning--too little entirely; but any one can see that you are\nwell instructed. But when it comes to knowing about people as they are\nand not as they ought to be, I am far ahead of you, though I am only a\nmonth or two older. You are a mere baby in all that, absolutely blind\nto what I can see across the street; and you are such an earnest,\nhonest, credulous soul that you are bound to have your heart broken\ndozens of times while you are learning what you ought to know already.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow did you learn it all so soon?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy experience, the only school whose lessons we remember. I was\nmarried at seventeen and am twenty-four now. One can learn a heap of\nthings in seven years, with so good a chance as I have had.\u201d (Here the\nButterfly\u2019s mouth took on a hard and bitter curve, which told more than\nher word of what her sad wisdom had cost.) \u201cThat I was romantic goes\nwithout saying. I believed in the foolish love-stories I read and\nexpected life to be like them. Were I clever like you, I would write\nbooks and tell about life as it is and not as novel writers generally\npretend it is, deluding the ignorant and inexperienced. I actually\nbelieved there was such a thing as happiness, and that I could secure\nit in the usual way, by marrying the man I was in love with--otherwise\nthe man who had succeeded in casting a spell over me that caused me to\nsee him through a mist of enchantment, for that is what it means. But\nmy fool\u2019s paradise didn\u2019t last long. I soon learned to my sorrow that a\nman out of a book is not at all like a man in a book. One shock after\nanother came, until at last nothing could surprise me. After a time\nmy husband began to drink heavily and does yet, and that is what has\nbrought us to poverty. When he is bad drunk he is ugly and dangerous.\nIn short, my life is hard and hateful \u2019way down out of sight.\u201d\n\n\u201cO my friend,\u201d cried Cartice, with glistening eyes, \u201cit is a tragedy,\nand I thought nobody suffered as I do.\u201d\n\nMrs. Layton continued: \u201cWhen I married I loved him, was proud of him,\nbelieved in him. Now I only pity him, and care for him only as a mother\ncares for a child. Could he read my thoughts his vanity, should he have\nany left, must suffer. Such men lose far more than we do, after all,\nbut they are so steeped in selfishness, so besotted in ignorance, they\ncan\u2019t see it. And he has wretched health, as any one may see. I don\u2019t\nknow what the end will be, and dare not think of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish we could know what such experiences mean,\u201d said Cartice. \u201cWhat\nis suffering for? Why must it be? We try hard to find the right road;\nwe do the best we can; the way looks fair and smooth, and then from no\nfault of our own that we can see we are plunged into dark depths. I\nwish we knew the reason of it, the purpose of it. I wish we knew.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is rather strange, Mrs. Doring, that I tell you everything so\nfrankly. I have never been so confidential with any one before.\nChatterer as I appear to be I am as proud as Clara Vere de Vere, and\nkeep my own affairs to myself; but in talking with you everything\nbubbles right out, yet you never ask any questions. I shouldn\u2019t mind\ntelling you anything, even if it wasn\u2019t to my credit, I feel so much\nconfidence in you, and somehow it helps me to tell you. I was attracted\nto you from the first, but you were so reserved and unapproachable\nthat if it had not been for this illness of yours, I doubt if we ever\nshould have become so well acquainted. You have a curious effect on\nme. I couldn\u2019t tell a fib to you nor to any one in your presence if I\nwanted to, and yet it has always been easy to me to tell little bits of\nlies about things that couldn\u2019t hurt any one. I never thought there\nwas any harm in it. But somehow I can\u2019t do it when you are near, nor\neven when I think of you, and I shouldn\u2019t wonder if I gave up the habit\naltogether. Do you remember one day before you got sick, when several\nof us were in the parlor and I had a new fan and the rest were admiring\nit?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Mrs. Orton asked me how much it cost. Of course it\u2019s the\nworst of manners to ask the price of things, but one meets plenty of\nimpertinent, ill-bred people as one goes along, and must be civil to\nthem. I was about to tell her that it cost five dollars, though it only\ncost two, when I saw you looking at me, and quick as a flash out came\nthe truth. You didn\u2019t know the price of it, so I wasn\u2019t afraid you\nwould catch me in a fib; but I was ashamed not to speak the truth in\nyour presence. Your eyes look into one, deep down inside, and expect\nto see everything there sweet and clean and honest, and I could not\ndisappoint them.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou can\u2019t be half so wicked as you represent yourself, for you have\none of the sweetest faces I ever saw, and one of the most beautiful,\u201d\nsaid Mrs. Doring, with fervent admiration.\n\nThe Butterfly lilted out a significant little laugh. \u201cYes, I have been\ntold that I have an innocent face; but that is a freak of nature, for\nI am not innocent. I am tolerably--yes, tolerably well informed on\nsome subjects, and I do one thing that you will consider abominable, I\nflirt.\u201d\n\n\u201cDear friend, do tell me exactly what it is to flirt,\u201d Cartice asked,\nentreatingly. She remembered that her husband had taken refuge in that\nword on the occasion of the affair with Mrs. Parker.\n\nThe Butterfly looked at her pityingly. \u201cIf any other woman asked me\nthat question,\u201d she said, \u201cI should be sure she was a villain of the\ndeepest dye, and was affecting ignorance in order to pull the wool over\nmy eyes; but you are such a muff about such things that I can readily\nbelieve you don\u2019t know. It isn\u2019t very easy to explain. Words can\u2019t\ndescribe it very well. Not mincing matters in my case it\u2019s making a bid\nfor the attention of men and getting it.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoliteness demands that ladies receive attention from gentlemen,\u201d said\nthe unsophisticated Mrs. Doring, innocently.\n\n\u201cMy benighted friend, your name should be Galatea. I don\u2019t mean mere\npolite attention, but particular attention, sentimental, lover-like\nattention, with a strong flavor of danger in it.\u201d\n\nCartice began to understand. \u201cWhat comes of it?\u201d she asked.\n\nA shrug of Mrs. Layton\u2019s graceful shoulders. \u201cNothing, often.\nSometimes--well, there are extraordinary cases, and at the beginning\nit\u2019s best not to think of the end.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you get out of it?\u201d\n\nAnother shrug. \u201cCome to think of it, nothing particular, unless it be\ndistraction.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd those who flirt with you,--how do they come out?\u201d\n\n\u201cSome of them have the bad taste to become serious, which makes it\nrather awkward. Then they have to be sent off for good, and perhaps\nthey wail about bruised hearts and such like, which I don\u2019t mind. They\nnever get a whack amiss. What I don\u2019t owe them some other woman does. I\nonly help to even up for women in general.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you might grow serious, too, some time.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am not afraid, because I have no heart any more. It is as dead as\nthe traditional door-nail. I can dance nearer the edge of a precipice\nthan anybody else and keep my head.\u201d\n\n\u201cSome do go over, don\u2019t they?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; poor fools with hearts who ought not to play in that kind of a\ngame.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is something I know nothing whatever about, but it appears to be\nboth perilous and unprofitable,\u201d said Cartice.\n\n\u201cYou are quite right in your conclusion. The liquor habit is also\nperilous and unprofitable, yet the man addicted to it keeps right on\nin it. One must do something to keep from remembering certain other\nthings. With me it\u2019s a case of keeping my mind off misery. I got into\nit because in the first year of my married life my husband neglected\nme shamefully, spending most of his time with a mincing little woman\nwho posed for goodness itself. For a time I broke my heart over it; all\nwomen do. Then I braced up and began to administer his own medicine\nto him, only not in such repugnantly large doses. We all do things it\nwould be better not to do, because somebody else does us an injury. We\nget into one trouble in trying to escape from another. It\u2019s merely a\nmatter of choice between the frying pan and the fire,--a puzzle far too\ndeep for my light head to work on.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNothing is accidental. We meet the people we are destined to meet, and\nwith their help or hindrance work out our problem, be it hard or easy.\nThe most feather-weight of mortals may prove our greatest teacher. In\nwhose keeping we shall find the most precious treasures we know not.\nBut it was written in the great unopened book that the Butterfly was to\nbe help and healing to the bruised heart of Cartice Doring, and to bear\na torch which should light for her the very darkest page of life.\n\nWhen affairs are at their worst a change has to come. Misery itself\ndoes not stand still. It moves slowly, nevertheless it moves.\nThe finances of the Laytons and Dorings had reached the stage of\ndesperation. Colonel Layton found the situation too grave to face\nwithout frequent liquefactions. The result was that he escaped facing\nit altogether, for he forgot it completely during the day, and at night\nwent into a stupor too profound for landlords or other monsters to\ninvade.\n\nThe Butterfly and Cartice thought of a means of extricating themselves\nat last. They decided to leave the hotel, take lodgings and eat,\nBohemian fashion, when they could pay for it, and fast when they had no\nmoney.\n\nThey found furnished rooms, side by side, which they provided with some\ntiny traps for cooking, by selling some of the Butterfly\u2019s personal\ntreasures. To the surprise of the others, Colonel Layton volunteered\nto go daily to market and bring in supplies for both families, a task\nhe performed for some time with a faithfulness not natural to his\ncharacter, which was uncertain and ease-loving to the last degree. He\nwent early and returned loaded like a porter. Among his purchases,\ncream cheese in liberal quantities was always a certainty. This was the\nbait that lured him to the market. He had a boyish fondness for it, and\nlike a boy was willing to go out of his way to get it.\n\nCartice and the Butterfly rejoiced in each other more and more every\nday. They shared their money and whatever else they possessed freely,\nand the unqualified frankness of their confidences was salvation for\nthem. To tell a trouble to sympathetic ears is, in a measure, to throw\nit off. Repression kills, but expression is life. The seed that sends a\nplant upward from the earth expresses itself. Were conditions such that\nit could not do so, it would die and rot away in the darkness.\n\nThe blessed Butterfly, whose extraordinary baptismal name of\nChrissalyn, fitted her so exquisitely, had a far nobler mission in the\nworld than she herself dreamed.\n\nMrs. Doring continued to search for the meaning of things. She had\nsought happiness and found wretchedness, and in the first anguish of\ndisappointment failed to see that she was not the only one who had had\na fruitless quest. There was the Butterfly whose experience was the\nsame, and many others, now that she thought of it. Perhaps all had more\nor less disappointment were their inner lives known.\n\nDimly she began to see that the pursuit of happiness could not be the\ntrue purpose of life, though all the world assumed that it was. Her\ndream of conjugal companionship had vanished altogether. There were\ntimes when she hated her husband, times when she pitied him, times when\nshe despised him, and times when she tried to believe that she loved\nhim,--must love him or die. Had any soul in the universe so yearned\nfor love as she and been from birth so stinted of it? Behind the\nimmobile mask that hid her proud, suffering heart from other eyes, her\nsoul cried for it. What could not she have endured, with a laugh on her\nface and a song on her lips, had love walked by her side? Could poverty\nor any other terror which civilization has nursed daunt her then? No, a\nthousand times no, she said.\n\nHer own troubles diminished, however, in the presence of the heavier\nones under which Chrissalyn now staggered.\n\nColonel Layton was going down hill distressingly fast, and nothing\ncould be done to save him. His health was broken, his wits muddled and\nwandering most of the time, and the end of his resources at hand. He\nhad let go his anchorage and was drifting to his destruction, careless\nof wind or tide.\n\nMeantime the brave Butterfly smiled before the world and chatted\ncheerily when her friends called, though with her heart in her mouth,\nand her ear ever alert for her husband\u2019s wavering footsteps. When\nshe heard the unwelcome sound, she made excuse and went outside to\nintercept his entrance. Usually at such times he was pathetically\nobedient, and sat where she placed him, in some vacant room or dark\ncorner of the hall, till her visitors left and she came for him. To\nbe sure he complained and whined and swore in a rambling way without\nrage, yet when Chrissalyn came he went with her like a worn out child.\nHowever, he was not always so tractable. There were times when he\nblustered and threatened, and his eyes had a light dancing in them that\nmade one\u2019s blood run cold.\n\nOne night Mrs. Doring could not sleep, a sense of impending danger\noppressed her. Getting up and putting on a wrapper, she went to a\nwindow and looked into the street. All was still, and yet somewhere\nshe fancied she heard mutterings. On going into the hall she saw the\nLaytons\u2019 door open, the lights at full flare, and, to her surprise, the\ncolonel, fully dressed, sitting in the doorway whetting a razor, with a\nslow, sibilant stroke, which seemed to give him extraordinary pleasure,\nfor he smiled in a gratified way and his eyes twinkled like stars.\nThere was no fury in his face, but something far more dreadful--the\nlook of a lunatic who meditates a deed he considers delightful. Sitting\nby the window, opposite the door, was Chrissalyn, clad only in her\nsleeping gown, with a face white and rigid, and a pistol held firmly in\nher hand.\n\nAt sight of the scene Cartice grew cold with fright; but she went close\nto Colonel Layton and was about to speak, when, without pausing in his\nrazor whetting, he said, gently, \u201cGo away, now, Mrs. Doring, and come\nback a little later if you want to.\u201d\n\nIn spite of the apparently innocent words, she felt that behind them\nlurked some terrible intention. If she called help the arrival of\nothers might precipitate whatever horror lurked in his mad mind.\n\nChrissalyn heard everything but said nothing, and her silence was\neloquently ominous.\n\n\u201cWhy should I come again if I go away?\u201d she asked, thinking to lead his\nmind from the work in hand.\n\nShrugging his shoulders significantly, he said, \u201cMerely to see sights,\u201d\nand then laughed the low satisfied laugh of one who knows and enjoys\nthings his listener dreams not of.\n\n\u201cWhat sights?\u201d\n\nAnother shrug. His vanity, ever strong, overcame his secretiveness, and\nhe could not refrain from boasting of his intended exploits. \u201cThe last\nof Chrissalyn and me,\u201d he said, presently, with a chuckle. \u201cI\u2019m tired\nof the whole damned business of living, and shall give it up, but I\nshan\u2019t leave her behind me. Oh, no! She goes first.\u201d\n\nThough chilled to the marrow at this cool statement, whose truth the\nscene and the hour confirmed, Cartice pretended to put no stress upon\nit. Hurriedly racking her brains for some pretence for her call and\npretext for his services, she said, \u201cI\u2019m sorry to trouble you just\nnow, Colonel, but Louis is very sick, and I want you to go and ring\nup Barton\u2019s night clerk and get some whiskey for him as soon as you\ncan. You are always so kind and obliging; I\u2019m sure you won\u2019t mind my\nbothering you.\u201d He was ever the most easily flattered creature. Then,\ntoo, there was magic for him in the word whiskey.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll go, won\u2019t you?\u201d she asked, entreatingly, as he made no answer.\n\n\u201cYes, yes, of course,\u201d he replied, absently holding the razor close to\nhis eyes and looking critically at its edge, but making no move.\n\n\u201cYou will excuse me if I beg you to make haste, please,\u201d she continued.\n\u201cPoor Louis is in a wretched state.\u201d\n\nHe got up slowly, took his hat and began to waver about the room, still\nholding the open razor in his hand. As he moved toward Chrissalyn she\nraised the hand that clutched the pistol, and her eyes had a steady,\ndetermined look that said she would defend herself to the death.\n\n\u201cCome, Colonel,\u201d cried Cartice, apparently in good-natured haste, \u201cI\nhear Louis groaning. Please go as quickly as you can.\u201d He laid the\nrazor down and went out and down the stairs as docile as a dog.\n\nChrissalyn fell forward in a dead faint. When she returned to\nconsciousness, limp and pale, and Cartice suggested taking her into her\napartment, lest the Colonel return, she smiled feebly, saying, \u201cThere\nis no danger. He will not be back in ten or twelve hours. You probably\nthink this scene unusual, but its like has occurred several times\nbefore. Once I had to shoot, and the ball went through his hat. The\nshock of it was almost too much for me, for I thought I had killed him.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy poor Chriss, you must leave him, and not run such risks any more.\nOne such experience is enough to make you grey-headed.\u201d\n\n\u201cI stay on because I can do no other thing, and if I could I should\nstay to take care of him, poor, helpless, wandering soul that he is.\nHe will come home to-morrow weak as a baby, go to bed and lie there\nhelpless for weeks.\u201d\n\nShe was a true prophet. At midnight of the next day he crept wearily up\nthe stairs, a feeble, disheveled, miserable figure, with a pale, peaked\nface, and faded, watery eyes. Taking refuge in bed, he arose no more\nfor over a month.\n\nThese days of terror and anxiety were telling seriously on the\nButterfly, ever a fragile being, who hung to earth seemingly by the\nmost delicate thread. The pity of it was that she loved life so. Even\nas it had disclosed itself to her, full of disappointment, of tragedy,\nheartache and humiliation, with want menacing her daily and trouble\nelbowing her at every step, still she loved it. Her ideal was not\nparticularly exalted. Given pretty clothes and surroundings, a few\npleasant friends, a modest retinue of moths to circle round her and a\nfew gold pieces to jingle in her purse, and she could squeeze joy out\nof life still. But remember she was a butterfly.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER VII.\n\n                             OPPORTUNITY.\n\n \u201cA new friend is a new fortune.\u201d\n\n You have sometimes known happiness, eh? Yes, the happiness of others.\n\n  --_Aresene Houssaye._\n\n\nOne Sunday morning Mrs. Doring sat at a window, making a sketch of a\nfigure she saw on the opposite side of the street, when Chrissalyn, who\nhad entered by the open door, went near and looked over her shoulder\nwith the familiarity of close friendship.\n\n\u201cWhy, how wonderful!\u201d she exclaimed, the most flattering admiration\nin her voice and face. \u201cThat\u2019s Gabriel Norris, the street preacher, a\nlocal celebrity. You\u2019ve done him to perfection--even better than he\nlooks himself--that is, I see something in his expression here that I\nnever saw in him, and yet I believe he has it after all. The picture\nbrings it out strong. I can\u2019t tell just what it is, but it makes me\nwant to cry.\u201d\n\nThe eyes of the sketcher glowed with an indescribable light--the light\nwhich the intangible, potent, holy thing we call appreciation calls\nfrom the depths of human souls. To portray nature so that the most\nheedless and untaught see the soul of the subject and are able for the\nmoment to roam about in that awesome country,--with the artist, and\nfeel his heart-throbs--is ever the dream of art. By the effect of her\nwork on the Butterfly, Cartice realized that in this modest drawing she\nhad accomplished this.\n\n\u201cThere, he is moving on and the boys he has been talking to are going\nwith him,\u201d said Chrissalyn, leaning out of the window. \u201cHe preaches\nevery Sunday morning at the South Market, and is probably on his way\nthere now. He is a queer fellow, though he belongs to a rich and\nrespectable family who are greatly mortified at his peculiar doings.\nBut he hasn\u2019t lived with them for ten years, nor taken a cent from\nthem. He has a little cobbler\u2019s shop away down town in the very ugliest\npart of the city, and supports himself making and mending shoes, and\ndoes excellent work, they say. On Sundays, and other odd times he\npreaches to people who are too poor to go to church, and does lots\nof other things for them besides. You see he is cheaply dressed,\nthough as clean as a pin. He could have better clothes, but doesn\u2019t\nwant them--has views about such things--says he does not want to be\nseparated from the people he tries to help by being better dressed than\nthey are. Of course he is an out-and-out crank, but wasn\u2019t always so.\nA dozen years ago nobody was fonder of the good things of the world.\nHe was the leader of the very swellest social doings. All at once\nhe took a turn in the opposite direction--said he had been wasting\nhis life, and was going to put what remained of it to some use. Some\nsay an unlucky love affair set him off; others that he had a dream or\nvision that changed him. At this very moment I dare say his father\nand family are rolling to church--the swellest church here--in their\nfine carriage. But Gabriel preaches against the rich--or at least\nagainst the selfish use they make of their money, and prophesies no\nend of difficulty for them here and hereafter if they keep on as they\nare going. I have always laughed at him, but I never shall again,\nbecause your picture of him gives me a queer thrill and lets me see\ninto him as I never did before. But how did you get the features, the\nexpression,--everything so perfect, seeing him only from the window?\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw him a few days ago, with his head bare, just as I have him\nhere, preaching to a little group on a street corner,\u201d said Cartice.\n\u201cI stopped a moment to listen, and his face has been often in my mind\nsince. So when I saw him from the window, this morning, talking to the\nboys, I hurried to make a sketch of him.\u201d\n\nThen looking up, with an eager light in her mottled eyes, she said,\n\u201cChrissalyn, let us go and hear him. You say he speaks to the poor. We\nare of them. Who needs help more? Let us go.\u201d\n\nThe Butterfly gave but a grudging consent. She was the natural enemy\nof all serious instruction. As they went she babbled on about Gabriel\nNorris:\n\n\u201cAs he was bent on preaching, his father wanted him to go to a\ntheological college and be shaped up into a first-class regulation\npreacher, wear the correct thing in clothes, have a fashionable church,\ngilt-edged Bible, velvet pulpit cushions, fat salary and everything\nthat goes to make preaching respectable; but Gabriel wouldn\u2019t have it\nthat way. He said there was more than enough of that kind of thing;\nthat what he wanted to say to people had nothing in common with\ntheological factories, and as for pulpit cushions and the like they\nwere abominations in the sight of the Lord; that Jesus had none of\nthem, nor would he have.\u201d\n\nThe scene at the market-house was one to take hold upon the heart. The\npeople who sat there on rude benches were all from the bitter land of\nindigence. Its hard conditions were written in their faces, their poor\ngarments, stooping shoulders, weary and awkward attitudes. Many women\nwere there, for women are ever found where a word of promise and hope\nis to be spoken, and that fact is eloquent of what they suffer, of the\nbitterness of their disappointments, of the weight of their sorrows, of\nthe hunger of their hearts and the yearning of their spirits.\n\nBefore the preacher had spoken ten minutes Cartice was under the spell\nof his oratory, which was simple, strong and sympathetic. It wasn\u2019t\npreaching. It was the life-giving, hope-inspiring talk of a loving\nfriend, and it went to the hearts of his hearers and there awoke nobler\naspirations. He said nothing of seeing evil in them. Instead, he told\nthem how good they were--much better and higher than they themselves\nhad dreamed; that possibilities of wonderful and beautiful growth were\nin every one of them; that they had an eternity in which to grow, and\non themselves depended their well-being now and forever.\n\nIt was good to see the light of self-respect come into their dull eyes\nunder the potent spell of the young preacher\u2019s earnest words. Some of\nthem had shrunk internally to almost nothing, under the blight of the\nself-depreciation which close intimacy with grinding poverty begets.\nNow their souls began to gather confidence and stand erect, conscious\nof their own value.\n\n\u201cMy dear ones,\u201d he said, \u201cdon\u2019t make the blunder of thinking that the\naim of life is to be happy. Do not spend your time hunting happiness,\nseeking it where it never was and never will be--in the external things\nof life, in possessions that pass even while you use them, in pleasures\nthat leave a bitter taste in the mouth and a regret in the heart. I\ndoubt not that our Divine Father intended us to be happy, but not in\nthe way we imagine. His way is so very clear and simple, and yet we\nare so blind we see it not, and wander in such hard paths, and lose\nourselves often. It is to love each other. Ever so brief a trial of\nthis way proves it the true one. But to love each other does not mean\nto love only your own families, your friends and those who treat you\nwell. It means to love everybody, even your enemy. When you love your\nenemy, a miracle happens. He ceases to be your enemy. Love always and\nto the end.\n\n\u201cWhen we love as we should we do not question whether we are happy\nor not. Then another miracle happens. We are happy, for we taste the\nhighest order of happiness, that of forgiving and loving our enemies,\nof giving out good will and kindness to all, of making others happy.\nThe less we think of our own happiness the happier we shall be.\n\n\u201cDid any man or woman whose life has helped the world go about\ncomplaining because he or she was not happy? Serve others, thinking\nnot of yourselves and, without knowing the hour of the great\ntransformation, you will find you are already a dweller within the\nkingdom of heaven.\n\n\u201cLove, and judge not--that is, don\u2019t find fault. When you learn to\nlove, you will not wish to judge; you will not see the faults; you will\nsee only the good in everybody.\u201d\n\nThe Butterfly would have found the experience dull, but that on the\nedge of the assemblage she spied a handsome male acquaintance. This\nenabled her to await the end of the lecture with heroic patience. Her\nface wore an expression indicative of complete indifference to his\npresence, for that was part of her method of attracting moths, though\nin fact she saw nothing and thought of nothing but him. It goes without\nsaying that as soon as Gabriel Norris had dismissed his people, this\nimposing moth was by her side. She greeted him with demure civility,\nas though he was the most ordinary apparition that could loom up--for\nthat, too, was in her tactics--then presented him to Cartice as Mr.\nPrescott.\n\nHe had a reverent way with women, unstudied and natural, which usually\nwon their good will and sometimes more at the first meeting. He took\nher hand with old-fashioned friendliness, and as he looked into her\nface, and her eyes met his, the mask of self-repression she had been\nwearing slipped aside for a moment, and her sore and suffering spirit\nstood in mute appeal before him, and he saw and understood.\n\n\u201cShow Mr. Prescott your sketch, Mrs. Doring, please,\u201d said the\nButterfly. Without demur Cartice opened her sketch book which she had\nbrought to give the finishing touches to Gabriel\u2019s picture. Prescott\nstarted in surprise when he saw it. After a moment or so of silence, he\nsaid, \u201cIt is admirable.\u201d\n\nMrs. Doring\u2019s face glowed. A word of praise with the genuine ring in it\nwarmed her heart to the core.\n\n\u201cYou draw well, too, Mrs. Layton,\u201d he said, with a significant smile;\n\u201cbut not in the same way.\u201d\n\nThe Butterfly disdained to reply. Turning to Cartice, with the most\nwinning deference, he said, \u201cI should like to purchase your sketch,\nwhen completed, Mrs. Doring. I want to publish it. Write me a\ndescription of the services here this morning, to go with it, will you\nnot? You _can_ write, I know without asking.\u201d (Mentally--If she would\nwrite what her eyes tell it would move the world.)\n\n\u201cMr. Prescott is the editor of the _Register_,\u201d said the Butterfly, by\nway of explanation.\n\n\u201cI shall be delighted to do so,\u201d Cartice answered, with swelling heart.\n\n\u201cAnd do some more of the same kind of work afterward. I want things\nlike that--plenty of them,\u201d he said.\n\nAs they talked together Gabriel Norris joined them, for he and the\nnewspaper man were old friends. Cartice thanked him earnestly for his\nhelpful words, saying frankly that she needed them as much as any of\nhis hearers. Accustomed to the indifference and contempt of that part\nof the public which should have understood him, and to the stupidity of\nthat which could not, he had long used himself to live without praise;\nbut he was human, and his heart was lighter and warmer for a word of\nappreciation.\n\nCartice walked home on air. The long lane of her misery was turning.\nA chance to work had come to her, and that meant a means of climbing\nout of the slough of despond. Idleness is the prelude to decay, an\ninvitation to destruction. Enforced idleness, when the spirit longs\nfor activity, and yet finds itself hedged in, helpless, cut off from\nopportunity, is the death of hope, the very day of doom for the soul.\nNow that was all over. The ladder that leads out of despondency and on\nto the best the world has to give was before her, her feet already on\nits first round.\n\nShe could hardly wait to get home and write the description that was to\naccompany the drawing. It took shape as she went, one sentence chasing\nanother in her mind, all eager for expression, which is but another\nword for life.\n\nThe Butterfly had a new theme to chatter about--Prescott and his\ndoings, though her companion scarcely heard her, so deep was she in her\nnew dreamland of action.\n\n\u201cPrescott is a genius, they all say, though a capital fellow,\nnevertheless. Nobody can back him down, for he fears neither man\nnor devil, and I like that. He is divorced from his wife who was\nconsiderable of a fiend, I guess, and no doubt he is too, on\noccasions. She married again. It was lucky we went to hear Gabriel. One\nnever knows where one may encounter a streak of good fortune,--even at\nso unexpected a place as church sometimes.\u201d\n\nThough but few words had been exchanged the famished spirit of Cartice\nDoring had been refreshed by meeting Prescott and Gabriel Norris. Words\nare but a cumbrous means of communion anyway. When we better understand\nthe laws of our being we shall need them less. Our thought goes forth\nand becomes a part of others, by a subtler method than articulate\nspeech; and this is why no man can live unto himself, and why if one be\nlifted up he lifts up others also.\n\nThe turning point in ill fortune had come, sure enough. The very\nnext day Doring announced that he had \u201cdropped into something.\u201d It\nwas not a chance to make a fortune, but it was--well, just what he\nsaid--something.\n\nIs it not true that there are persons who bring us good luck from\nthe very moment they cross our paths, and others who dower us with\nill-fortune as long as we are associated with them? Mascots and Jonahs\nare realities, not myths. Meeting Gordon Prescott and Gabriel Norris\nhad turned the tide for Mrs. Doring. One had opened the gate of\nopportunity, and the other had given her a kind of help not easy to\nlabel. It might be described by saying that she felt better for having\nmet him.\n\nHer sketch of him, with an accompanying word picture of the scene at\nthe market-house went promptly to the _Register_, and was responded to\nin person by Prescott, who brought her a crisp five dollar note, said\nan appreciative word or two in his curt, laconic way, and repeated the\norder for more.\n\nThe joy of expression took hold of her, and to her great amazement\nher pen could more than keep pace with her pencil. Its creations\nwere distinguished by an originality, a strength and grace that at\nonce attracted attention. To her the pleasure she found in writing\nwas not in the admiration it excited, but in the doing of it,--in\nthe never-ceasing surprise that she could do it so well. Sometimes\nwhen she read her own productions after the fire that created them\nhad died out, they seemed new and strange to her, like the work of\nanother. An apparently inexhaustible well within herself had been\nopened, into which she could reach at will and draw forth sparkling\ndraughts. In this way she became aware of the complexity, temerity and\nunfathomableness of that wondrous, unseen, indescribable thing we call\nmind, which has everlastingly within it all that is, was or shall be.\n\nIt astonished her to see the facility with which her pen danced\nhumorous jigs, flung off diamonds of wit, and set in motion rippling\nwaves of laughter. It was strange that she who was but emerging from\nthe valley of despair, and whose life so far had had in it but little\nof the glitter of pleasure, could write as one who knew the light, the\njoyous, the mirthful, the happy side of existence.\n\nYet even in her most jaunty and jubilant products, here and there would\nbe a bold, strong stroke of another kind, which made the reader know\nthat he was following no light soul. In all she wrote, whether grave or\ngay, were the \u201cfresh eyes,\u201d to which we give the name of originality,\nand another quality, for which we have no name, which moves us, we know\nnot why.\n\nWhen it began to be rumored that the _Register\u2019s_ new writer was a\nwoman, the smart people, who knew everything, shook their heads and\nsniffed incredulously, saying that there was too much force in the\nwork; that the style was not womanish--it was Prescott in disguise.\nThey expected the apron-strings to flutter conspicuously from every\npage prepared by a feminine hand. For them genius has sex and that sex\nis always male.\n\nIt must not be understood that these early efforts of my heroine\nwere worthy a place among the works of genius. They were only fresh,\nspirited, striking sketches of life as their author saw it, and they\nwent into the great ocean of newspaper literature here, there and\nall about, that lives but for a day. Some of them, it is true, found\na pathetic scrap-book immortality. Others were picked up by mightier\nperiodicals than the _Register_, and given a flatteringly wide\ncirculation, and a few met the dreary fate of getting into imposingly\nbound collections of \u201cLiterary Gems,\u201d there to rest in undisturbed\nsecurity on village parlor tables for many a year to come.\n\nIn a few weeks Mrs. Doring had the felicity to be installed as\nassociate editor of the _Register_. Her salary was not munificent,\nas salaries usually are in fiction. Let no one imagine that all\naspirants get an opportunity to do newspaper work and ascend the ladder\nas easily. Her good luck in this particular could be traced to her\nfitness for the position. Prescott soon discovered that besides having\nextraordinary ability and originality as a writer, she had what he\ncalled the \u201ceditorial instinct,\u201d which, being interpreted, meant that\nshe knew instinctively what an attractive newspaper should contain.\n\nIn novels it is always easy to get to the top. In that respect the\npeople who live in books have a much better time than they who live\noutside of them. There young heroes make dazzling flights up the\njournalistic mountains. A young man comes out of college, writes\nsomething for a powerful daily newspaper, whose editor at once begs\nhim to accept a lucrative situation thereon. He allows himself to\nbe persuaded, after some hesitation, and takes advantage of the\nopportunity for distinction thrust upon him, after which he goes up\nwithout delay or hindrance, till he becomes editor-in-chief, owns the\npaper and is a recognized power in the land. But in real life, alas!\nthe get-there road is a harder one to travel.\n\nAnother thing in real life is managed less excellently than in fiction.\nThe women who do newspaper work, too frequently have a little place\nfenced off to operate in. This is called \u201cWoman\u2019s Corner,\u201d or \u201cWoman\u2019s\nWork,\u201d or \u201cWoman\u2019s World,\u201d and therein the entire female part of the\npopulation is supposed to find satisfactory news aliment. There the\nwhole mass of reading women are expected to pasture in peace and\nplenty. And why not? There they can find out just how long a sponge\ncake should be left in the oven, what is the best lotion for the\ncomplexion, how to polish their finger nails, the latest thing in\nembroidery stitches, the newest style in visiting cards, the most\napproved method of conducting an afternoon tea, and no end of valuable\nand ennobling information in regard to what \u201cthey\u201d are wearing.\n\nBeside all this indispensable instruction the corner is sure to contain\nmany proud allusions to that terrible scourge, the \u201ctrue woman,\u201d who\nis always found sitting serenely within her \u201csphere,\u201d her feet on a\nhassock, her embroidery in hand, ignorance in her head, selfishness\nin her heart, vanity and jealousy written all over her feeble face,\nsaying that she \u201chas rights enough,\u201d just as she would say she has\nbread enough. But evolution, that \u201cslow performance of miracles,\u201d will\neventually oust even this stumbling-block in the path of human progress.\n\nCartice Doring was not a \u201ctrue woman,\u201d nor was her work on the\n_Register_ to be found in a \u201ccorner,\u201d neither had it a fence of any\nkind about it, seen or unseen, nor was it addressed to women more than\nto men. As she saw it, newspapers were for all and dealt with matters\nof interest to all humankind.\n\nHappily Prescott thought the same. He held almost no opinions dear to\nthe average mind, and scarcely ever put pen to paper without tearing up\nthe ground under the feet of those who insisted upon thinking \u201cthe same\nthoughts their fathers did think.\u201d He had founded the _Register_ and\nmade it the vehicle of his opinions rather than a mere news journal.\nThese opinions were invariably so new and daring, and so entertainingly\nexpressed that his worst enemies could not deny themselves the pleasure\nof reading them. Hence it was that the _Register_ was a flying success.\n\nAs it was well known that Prescott was as ready and able with his\nrevolver as with his pen, his views on current events were respected,\nand seldom openly disputed. He was the mortal enemy of fools and\nfogies, and found his chief joy in outraging that chaos of ignorance\nand prejudice we call public opinion. In short he was brilliant, bold,\nwitty, kind and cruel--a tremendous engine with sand in the joints.\n\nMrs. Doring found her new field of activity stimulating and delightful.\nIt had been her belief that happiness could be made of but two\ningredients--companionship and congenial employment. Now that she had\nthe latter, the want of the former troubled her less. Besides, she met\nmany people, and the contact of sympathetic minds is to another what\nmoisture is to vegetation--keeping it alive and invigorating it. In a\nday, as it were, the world had expanded, and she was in touch with its\nheart, vibrating in sympathy with its deep pulsations.\n\nShe learned much of human nature, particularly gifted human nature, for\nthe _Register_ had literary leanings, and many of its friends, men and\nwomen, who came to chat a vast half-hour in the informal editorial den,\nwere toiling up the narrow way that leads to eminence and fame.\n\nSome have achieved the fulfilment of their dreams and are now enjoying\ntheir little day of renown. Others had but a taste of the delirious\ncup of renown when they were called into the silence. Some grew weary\nand ceased to strive, and some are still plodding on in the old road,\nhaving neither lost nor gained ground.\n\nAs a matter of course, enemies arose. The spiteful, the envious, the\njealous, the bitter-hearted, the undeveloped must needs have their\nlittle fling at the woman whose pen was a power. But Cartice was too\nbusy to heed them. Scarcely had she time to ask herself if she were\nhappy. \u201cAlmost,\u201d she said, when she thought of it, though it was a\ndifferent kind of happiness from that of her earlier dreams.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER VIII.\n\n                          DEATH\u2019S NARROW SEA.\n\n  The child that enters life comes not with knowledge or intent;\n  So those who enter death must go as little children sent.\n  Nothing is known, but I believe that God is overhead;\n  And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead.\n\n  --_Mary Mapes Dodge._\n\n\nOne morning Cartice met Colonel Layton in the hall, as he was about to\ngo out for the day. His unusual appearance struck her at once. He was\nclean shaven and carefully dressed; his face was pale and no signs or\nfumes of liquor were upon or about him. This, of itself, was enough\nto attract particular attention; but there was more. An indefinable\nsomething in his manner asked for sympathy in a silent way, like an\nanimal; and in his eyes which of late were unusually glassy and vacant,\nwas an expression of reminiscent sadness, such as comes to the eyes of\nthose who in a quiet, self-questioning hour, look back upon their lives\nand see scenes that bring regret. Cartice felt her heart stirred by a\nwish to comfort him.\n\nPerhaps he was conscious of that vibration of sympathy, for he smiled\nand the smile was singularly sweet and winning, revealing a glimpse of\nhis old-time handsome self, when he had won the Butterfly\u2019s heart.\n\nIn conversation the Colonel was ever a failure. His ability in that\nart did not go much beyond a few stock expletives, eked out with\nsignificant shrugs and emphatic grunts. But now he tried to make talk,\nand lingered as though he had something to say and knew not how to\nbegin.\n\n\u201cHang it all,\u201d he growled at last, \u201cwhat is there in this life anyhow?\nWhat are we here for, I should like to know? What\u2019s the object of the\nwhole, miserable procession? It\u2019s a devil of a grind for everybody, and\nwe have to give it up at last, and go out of it, God only knows where.\nWhat do you think is at the end of it, Mrs. Doring?\u201d\n\n\u201cO Colonel, I think and think, but I know nothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, that\u2019s the dickens of it, nobody knows,\u201d he sighed. \u201cBut if there\nis a hell most of us will be well seasoned for it by tough times here.\nI feel about ripe myself. At least I am certain they can\u2019t get up\nanything worse than this world anywhere. Mighty little happiness here.\u201d\n\nThere was something inexpressibly pathetic in this ruined man\u2019s mention\nof happiness. Like all others he had been in pursuit of it, yet his\nseeking had but led him farther astray.\n\n\u201cShould you like to live your life over again?\u201d he asked with sudden\nanimation.\n\n\u201cI have not the courage,\u201d she answered.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know that I have either,\u201d he said, with a weary air. \u201cI don\u2019t\nknow that I want to; yet all the morning I have seen myself as I was\nwhen a child in my father\u2019s house, and my grown-up life seems but a\ndream. If it were so, and I remembered the dream, I would not again\ntravel the same road, I assure you. I recall one spring morning,\nparticularly--a Sunday morning--when I sat with my mother on the shady\nold porch with vines running up the sides, and she sang this:\n\n  \u201c\u2018There is a land of pure delight,\n    Where saints immortal reign.\n  Infinite day excludes the night,\n    And pleasures banish pain.\n\n  \u201c\u2018There everlasting spring abides\n    And never-withering flowers.\n  Death like a narrow sea divides\n    That heavenly land from ours.\u2019\u201d\n\nA good tenor voice had once been his, but the best of it had gone the\nirrevocable road, like many of his other endowments and possessions.\nEnough remained, however, to give a touching sweetness to the grand\nold words, and as he sang his face became softened, beautified,\ntransfigured, all that was erring and evil dropping out of it. The\nyears, too, fell away, and he was a little child again--nor had he\never been anything else--just a child, weak, wandering, blundering,\nstumbling often--just a child, brother to us all.\n\n\u201cDo you think there is anything for us on the other side of death?\u201d he\nasked, the childlike look still upon his face.\n\n\u201cI hope so.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I believe there is,\u201d he said, with unwonted decision. \u201cI have\nalways believed so, in spite of my bad practice, though I don\u2019t know\nwhat it is; but I am not afraid though I\u2019m no saint. It seems all\nright.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, whatever it is, it must be all right,\u201d Cartice answered. \u201cIt\ncould not be anything else. But I wish we knew something about it. I\nwish we knew.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt may not be long before I know. You see what I am--a shadow of what\nI used to be, a wreck in everything and nobody to blame but myself. I\nguess the end of the road can\u2019t be very far ahead. After I make the\nlonely journey, I\u2019ll come back and tell you something about it if I\ncan.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, Colonel Layton, thousands, millions have started on that journey\nwith the same promise upon their lips, but who has kept it?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, it is a stumper,\u201d he said, reflectively, \u201cbut in spite of it\nI have faith that perhaps I can. Mother and father are on the other\nside somewhere. This morning they seem very near to me--nearer than\never before since they went away. I feel that I might meet them at any\nturn.\u201d\n\nWith a sigh and a smile he lifted his hat in graceful adieu and went\nslowly down the stairs, softly singing,\n\n  \u201cDeath like a narrow divides\n    That heavenly land from ours.\u201d\n\nTwo hours later Cartice was sitting at her desk in the editorial office\nof the _Register_, when a stranger entered. Speaking low, as even the\nrudest do when they bring dread news, he said:\n\n\u201cColonel Layton fell dead on the street a few minutes ago. He has been\ncarried into Dr. Olcott\u2019s office, and the doctor wants you to come at\nonce. He knows you are a close friend of Mrs. Layton, and I guess he\nwants you to tell her and help make arrangements.\u201d\n\nDazed and trembling, Mrs. Doring was about to start when Prescott\nentered, and he volunteered to accompany her.\n\nThey found everything calm and orderly. The doctor was noted for\nkeeping an even mind under all circumstances, and had permitted no\nintrusion of the curious and idle. He opened the door to an inner room,\nand led them to a sofa on which the dead man lay awaiting the coroner.\nWith professional coolness the doctor turned down the sheet, saying,\n\u201cHe was already gone when they brought him in.\u201d\n\nIn very truth he had become a child again. The fair weak face wore a\nlook of youth and innocence. The light, shiny hair, scarcely ruffled\nfrom its careful arrangement of the morning, had on it baby tints of\nsunshine, and under the blonde moustache lurked the remnant of the\nchildishly sweet smile that lighted his face when Mrs. Doring saw him\ngo singing down the stairs two hours before. The placid form before\nher was his semblance, indeed, but it was not he. That mysterious fact\nCartice realized in an instant. There were his clay garments, but all\nthat was he was gone.\n\nThe funeral took place two days later. Mrs. Doring could not be\npresent, for she was unable to raise her head from the pillow. Thoughts\nof the great mystery which had just touched elbows with her haunted\nher all the time. The \u201cnarrow sea that divides the heavenly land from\nours,\u201d what was it like? What shore touched it on the other side? Was\nthere a heavenly land or any land beyond that dark ocean? And where was\nColonel Layton now?\n\nNo answer to these perplexing queries came. And yet, perhaps an answer\nalways comes could we but read it. Perhaps it came to Mrs. Doring,\nfor as she lay there wondering about it, a calm came upon her, and in\nimagination she saw Colonel Layton as he stood at the top of the stairs\non the day they talked together about this greatest of all problems,\nand heard him say, \u201cI am not afraid. It seems all right.\u201d Far down\nwithin herself she heard the echo, \u201call right! all right!\u201d and then she\nsaw again the Colonel\u2019s childish smile, and he repeated assuringly,\n\u201cYes, it\u2019s all right.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nChrissalyn went to live with a friend and determined to find a way\nto earn her bread. The end of one path through which she had sought\nhappiness was reached and only sadness and disappointment were there.\nNow she must look for others, for the endless quest goes on, clear to\nthe grave itself and possibly beyond. When she with the last scrap of\nher possessions was gone and her apartments left solitary, Cartice\nfelt a sense of desolation greater than she had known since she and\nthe Butterfly had been friends. Life is as inexorable as death; its\nseparations are often more cruel.\n\nIn the office of the _Register_ the final fate of man was a subject\noften under discussion. Prescott snorted in derision at any mention of\na continuance of life in a sphere invisible to us now. \u201cWe die and turn\nto dust, like the worm,\u201d he said. Cartice held to the hope of something\nmore than we have here--a sequel to this life, or a continuation of it,\nbut she could advance no basis for the hope which he considered tenable.\n\nWell-known figures in the state and community passed out of sight\ninto the silence of the grave every now and then, and it was the\n_Register\u2019s_ custom to speak with unvarnished frankness about their\nlives. Without doubt this, in many instances, added to the terrors\nof death, for Prescott was capable of very rough surgery in his\npost-mortem analysis. He flouted the old injunction, \u201cspeak no ill of\nthe dead,\u201d saying that mere dying did not excuse a man\u2019s misdeeds, nor\nmake an angel of him, and that they should reap an obituary harvest\nof whatever crop they had sown. Not even the time-honored \u201cregular\nsubscriber\u201d or \u201cconstant reader,\u201d had immunity from this harsh ruling.\nHe was willing to take the same medicine himself when his time came,\nand it should never be said of him that he was in the habit of\nplastering people all over with laudatory lies just because they had\ndied. \u201cO yes,\u201d he would snarl, \u201clots of men serve the devil all their\nlives, and then expect newspapers to put plenty of heaven in the truck\nthey print about them when they die. But the _Register_ isn\u2019t conducted\nthat way. They shall get in it what they have earned, no more, no\nless.\u201d Truly, many found, even without dying, that it was a terrible\nthing to fall into the too truthful hands of the _Register\u2019s_ editor.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER IX.\n\n             THINGS NOT DREAMED OF IN EVERYDAY PHILOSOPHY.\n\n \u201cCommunication between the spirit world and the corporeal world is in\n the nature of things, and has in it nothing supernatural.\u201d\n\n The body, after all, is only a portable, two-legged telephone through\n which the soul, or part of it, communicates with other souls which\n for purposes of education and evolution are temporarily imprisoned\n in these cumbrous and ingenious, but very inconvenient physical\n machines.\n\n --_William T. Stead._\n\n\nChrissalyn had the usual difficulty of the untrained in finding\nemployment. The search was long and disheartening and might never have\nhad a happy ending but for a curious accident, which was no doubt down\nin the books of destiny.\n\nShe was going up a public stairway one day, when a man descending at a\nbreak-neck gait ran against her, throwing her down. Distressed at what\nhe feared might have a serious ending, he picked her up, bewailing his\nawkwardness, and offering to do anything in his power to atone for it.\n\nShe opened her eyes to consciousness just as he was saying, \u201cWhat can I\ndo for her? What can I do for her?\u201d\n\n\u201cGet me a chance to earn my bread,\u201d she gasped, with almost her first\nbreath.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll do it at once,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ll take you right up the stairs\ninto my office and install you, out of gratitude that I didn\u2019t kill\nyou.\u201d So it could be said in all truth that she \u201cfell into a good\nsituation,\u201d for that it proved to be. Her ignorance of the duties she\nwas to perform was patiently borne with until it was overcome. Never\nwas butterfly more painstaking and industrious than she, and work\nproved a blessing to her, as it does to everybody whose heart is in it.\nOccupation gave her a stronger hold on life, for self-dependence is a\nwonderful invigorator. It gave her added dignity, too, leaving just\nenough of the butterfly instinct to give her exceeding grace.\n\nSeldom did she speak of her husband, save to Cartice, from whom she\nconcealed nothing, for Mrs. Doring was always tolerant, helpful,\nreceptive, kind and sympathetic, never critical and condemnatory.\nOthers beside the Butterfly understood this, and went to her with what\nthey needed to tell. The mind that is receptive, never meeting any\nhonest communication with hedgehog defiance or fool\u2019s sneer, becomes a\nmagnet which draws knowledge from the very fountain of light and life.\nInto it flow the secrets of the universe as well as of individuals.\n\nSpeaking of her husband one day to Cartice, the Butterfly said, \u201cI\nnever shed any tears because he died. It was the only road out of\nmisery for him and for me; but I did weep for the happiness we never\nhad together, yet might have had.\u201d\n\nOne Sunday she came, but was silent and reflective, unlike her usual\nself, for a time. At last she said: \u201cCartice, dear, I want to tell you\nsomething that will certainly seem queer to you. I dare not speak of it\nto any one else, lest I be locked up as a lunatic. But you are always\nso kind and so sensible, you may be able to understand it. I don\u2019t.\nWhen I think of it I feel afraid that I am a little off my base.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou can tell me anything, Chriss, you know that.\u201d\n\nThe Butterfly looked nervous and paled a little, but began:\n\n\u201cTo-day I have been to the funeral of Jess Hanley, a schoolmate of\nmine. We were always the best of friends, though for some years we\nhave seen comparatively little of each other, because she has been\ntied down at home so closely on account of sickness. Her husband died\nof consumption two years ago. A year later their little boy went. Then\nJess became ill, and for months she has been expecting to go any day\nalmost. Last week she sent for me and I went. She told me she knew her\ntime was nearly up. She was quite cheerful over it, as she believed\nshe would be with her husband and child again after she had \u2018passed\nover,\u2019 as she called it. She was a spiritualist, and thought that dying\nisn\u2019t dying at all. One thing she made me promise--a mere sick fancy I\nsuppose--and that was that I should not fail to go to her funeral.\n\n\u201cWell, I went of course. It was like most other respectable funerals.\nPeople looked solemn, there were flowers, and a preacher made the usual\nharrowing remarks, which set everybody weeping--everybody but me. I\ndidn\u2019t shed a tear, yet I loved Jess as well as any one there except\nher mother, I am sure.\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t cry because I was so dazed I couldn\u2019t. That was the queer\npart of it. I was dazed, because all the time the minister was speaking\nI saw Jess, her husband and little boy running around the coffin,\nlaughing, kissing each other and throwing flowers in all directions.\nThey took the flowers from the mass on top of the coffin, yet there\nwere never any fewer there, though they threw them around by handfuls.\n\n\u201cOnce when the preacher said, \u2018We shall see our sister no more until\nthat great and dreadful day of the Lord, when all shall stand at the\nbar of judgment,\u2019 Jess looked at me, laughed in a knowing way and threw\na rose into my lap; but when I tried to pick it up it wasn\u2019t there. Now\nwhat do you think of all that? _Am_ I crazy, or what was it?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you think it was, Chrissalyn?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know, and don\u2019t dare to think too much about it lest I get\nupset over it.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid others see them, do you think?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; I am sure they did not, and that frightens me. If they were really\nthere why didn\u2019t the others see them? If they were not there why should\nI see them, unless something has gone wrong in my head? I am sure the\nothers saw nothing, for I thought of that and watched them closely and\ncould detect no astonishment in their faces.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow did the dead people whom you saw look, Chrissalyn?\u201d\n\n\u201cJust like living people, clothes and all. Only I knew they were not\nliving and had no business to be there, and couldn\u2019t be there, and yet\nthey were there.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you ever seen anything of the kind before?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, several times; but I always drove the recollection of it out of\nmy mind as soon as possible, because it seemed uncanny and creepy--and\nI ended by persuading myself that I had imagined it all.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid your friend Jess know you had seen such things?\u201d\n\n\u201cCome to think of it, she did. Once a good while ago she told me\nabout some queer things of that kind she had seen. That\u2019s the reason\nshe was a spiritualist. Then I told her what I had seen.\u201d (Here the\nButterfly\u2019s face lighted up). \u201cNow that may be the reason she made me\npromise to be sure and go to her funeral. Perhaps she intended to make\nherself visible to me if she could. At least that view of it makes me\nfeel easier. I prefer to believe I saw ghosts rather than to think my\nbrain is going bad. It has been a long time since I saw anything of the\nkind. Each time I hope will be the last. But what do you think of it,\nCartice? You believe I saw those dead people, don\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI think you saw just what you say you did; but I can\u2019t explain it.\u201d\n\nMrs. Doring had always clung to the belief that the universe held many\nmysteries beyond her ken; that marvelous things, hidden from common\nvision, were destined to some day stand revealed, and no man knew the\nmanner in which they might make themselves known. She had had some\nexperience with professional clairvoyants which had been disenchanting.\nFor the most part they had been clammy, illiterate, unscrupulous,\npitiful types of humanity, ready to violate truth and the English\nlanguage without hesitation or remorse. Now she looked at the Butterfly\nwith an interest that almost amounted to awe. Could it be that the gift\nof seeing the hidden and unknown belonged to this bright, winged being,\nwho loved the world and the things of the world only?\n\nAt last she said: \u201cChrissalyn, you have heard of the faculty of\nclairvoyance, have you not?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, of course.\u201d\n\n\u201cMay it not be that you are a clairvoyant, and saw your dead friends\nclairvoyantly?\u201d\n\nThe Butterfly lifted her hands in horror. \u201cO Cartice, how can you\nsuggest such a thing? I a clairvoyant? It would be too dreadful. I\nwouldn\u2019t have a hint of such a horrid thing get out on me for the\nworld. Why, clairvoyants are hideous creatures, ugly, old, frowsy,\nuntruthful, and advertise to tell you all sorts of things for a dollar.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, my own Butterfly, you are not old and ugly and all the rest of\nit, neither are all clairvoyants. History contains the names of some\nvery eminent ones. What a wonderful and enviable gift clairvoyance must\nbe. How I wish I had it. And if it be true that you are possessed of\nit, think what it brings to you--light, light from heaven itself--the\nmost glorious light in the universe--proof that the dead have never\ndied.\u201d\n\nHer friend\u2019s enthusiasm ensnared the Butterfly\u2019s vanity at once, so\nthat she pricked up her ears and gave heed. Whatever Cartice said had\nweight with her. It gratified her, in spite of her prejudices, to have\na faculty unattainable to ordinary persons. All this darted through her\nhead and settled down into acceptance.\n\n\u201cWell, I don\u2019t mind if it is clairvoyance, only don\u2019t tell anybody.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s not a thing to be talked about with those who don\u2019t understand or\nrespect it. It\u2019s too precious. Would I could see such sights. Then I\ncould sing light-hearted tunes and walk on bravely, be my pack never so\nheavy. Don\u2019t fail to tell me if you see anything more.\u201d\n\nChrissalyn did see something more of the same character very soon, and\nmade haste to describe it to her friend.\n\nShe had gone to a bank to attend to some business which required more\nexplanation than was convenient to make through the cashier\u2019s window,\nso she was invited to take a seat in the office of the president, with\nwhom she had some acquaintance.\n\nWhile she sat there his son entered, bearing strong evidence of having\ntarried too long at the wine. His reputation as altogether too jolly a\ndog was well known. His father sent him off as speedily as possible,\nand then said to Chrissalyn in a burst of distracted confidence, such\nas we all give to somebody at times when the load grows too heavy, \u201cMy\nboy is going to ruin in spite of all I can do. I have borne with him\ntill I am out of patience, yet my forbearance is wasted. I am tempted\nto cast him off entirely, to throw him on his own resources and see how\nthat will work. Maybe it will bring him to reason, since no amount of\nkind treatment does him any good.\u201d\n\nOn the instant Mrs. Layton saw a woman stand behind the banker. Whence\nshe came or how she knew not, but there she was, and she spoke--spoke\nin an earnest, anxious voice, with an entreating gesture: \u201cTell him not\nto do that. Beg him not to do it. Say that _I_ implore him not to do\nit.\u201d\n\nUnder the impulse of the request, before she had time to think what she\nwas doing, the Butterfly told the banker what she had just seen and\nheard.\n\nHe was a big, commonplace, worldly man, whose head was never heated\nwith super-mundane problems, yet he whitened as he heard this strange\nstory.\n\n\u201cWhat was the woman like?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cShe was young and plainly dressed in a calico gown of an old-time\nmode, and she looked astonishingly like your son.\u201d\n\nThe face of the banker whitened more and more and his eyes became\nglassy and fear-struck.\n\n\u201cThat describes my first wife, Rob\u2019s mother,\u201d he said, \u201cyet you did not\nknow--no one here does--that he is not the child of my present wife. I\nwas poor while she lived, so poor that she never had anything better\nthan calico to wear.\u201d\n\nBy that time Chrissalyn began to have a sheepish feeling about what\nshe had done, and wished she were well out of it. A force that was\nresistless had impelled her to speak, but now that the tale was told,\nthe impulsion gone and she became master of herself again, her first\nthought was that she had let out the secret of her ability to see\nthings not within the range of common vision. So she attempted to make\nlight of it, lest the banker go about telling it as a queer thing, and\nthen the detested name of clairvoyant would be fastened on her in spite\nof everything.\n\n\u201cI dare say it\u2019s all nonsense, and I hope you won\u2019t think of it again,\u201d\nwhich was as near as she could delicately come to saying, \u201cI hope you\nwill not speak of it.\u201d\n\nThe stout banker mopped a cold perspiration from his face, with a good\ndeal of nervousness. He was tolerably shaken up, and was making a wild\neffort to regain his equilibrium. Though not a man to go very deep into\nanything outside of finances, he was neither dogmatic nor unteachable.\nHe knew what he didn\u2019t know, which is a rare bit of wisdom, and in that\nterritory were all things beyond the commonplace.\n\n\u201cAnyhow, whatever it was, Mrs. Layton, I\u2019m obliged to you for telling\nme--more obliged than I can express,\u201d he said, with unaffected\nearnestness--\u201cand I will do as she wants me to. I will not turn Rob\nout.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m glad of that,\u201d said his visitor, whose instincts were always\nkind. \u201cIt could hardly do him any good.\u201d\n\nThe springs of the banker\u2019s emotions had been touched, and for a\nmoment he looked like a big boy about to cry like a little boy. That\u2019s\nwhat he saw he must do, or pour himself out in uninvited and prodigal\nconfidence, and that\u2019s what he did.\n\nThus it was that the banker\u2019s skeletons held high carnival that\nafternoon in their owner\u2019s business office. The reminder of the wife\nof his youth, the companion of his poverty, pressed the closet door\nunceremoniously open. The unhappy owner of the unique outfit took a\nfull breath and unreservedly told how miserable he was, and that the\nonly happiness he ever had was during the life of his first wife,\n\n  \u201cWhen there was scarce bread to eat\n  And the wolf was at the door.\u201d\n\nNow, he had money, and with it a wife who wore purple and fine linen,\nand loved nobody but herself. He spoke of his loneliness, and told\nwhat a poor, mean, paltry sham his life was, and how at times he had\nwondered if his dead wife could see and understand. He kept on till the\ncloset of skeletons had been pretty well swept and aired, and they had\nstretched their legs in a fine dance after long suppression--kept on\nuntil the Butterfly held him and his wretchedness, so to speak, in the\nhollow of her hand. When she went forth it was with a sure conviction\nthat he would say nothing about her clairvoyant experiences. He would\nhave enough repenting to do about the break-out of the skeletons to\nkeep him busy.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER X.\n\n                      \u201cYE SHALL NOT UNDERSTAND.\u201d\n\n  Whatever happens to anybody it will be turned to beautiful results,\n  And nothing can happen more beautiful than death.\n\n  --_Walt Whitman._\n\n\nTwo years had passed since Colonel Layton died. Renewed health and\nbeauty had come to the Butterfly, who still contentedly earned and\nate her own bread. Self-dependence has many rewards for its faithful\ndisciples, not least among them being the conscious dignity that\nbelongs to usefulness, and expresses itself in the greater ease and\ncalmer assurance of bearing. Being a factor instead of a cipher gives a\nwoman new value in her own eyes, as well as in the eyes of others.\n\nIf Chrissalyn could see into the world to follow this, Cartice wondered\nwhy she had had no glimpse of her husband. She had not, she said, and\ndidn\u2019t want to. She hoped she never would see any one who had been\nnear to her--it would be too terrible. She insisted on keeping all\nknowledge of her queer experiences from Prescott. His sniffs and sneers\nof ridicule would be too much for her, nor did Cartice feel equal to\nthem either. According to Phillips Brooks there are two kinds of\ncowardice, that of the conservative, and that of the radical, both of\nthem fatal to freedom of thought. The former is afraid of being called\nan innovator, the latter fears to be thought conservative. One pliantly\nconforms to established methods; the other strikes defiance of them.\nNeither of them are free.\n\nPerhaps Prescott was of the second. Perhaps he fought what he called\nsuperstition lest he be forced to believe in spite of himself. At any\nrate his two friends, perhaps the loyalest he had, were not bold enough\nto take him into their confidence. The intolerant always pay this\npenalty. They shut out confidence; they make people afraid of them;\nthey keep light and good away from them, and drive angels themselves\nfrom their gates.\n\nCartice had a notion that the Butterfly and Prescott loved each other.\nBeing something of which the gods themselves must approve, she could\nnot understand the Butterfly\u2019s reticence on the subject, for the winged\ncreature said not a word in regard to it. In spite of his aggressive\ncharacter and some other deplorable defects, Prescott was a man to be\nproud of.\n\nThe three were much together. Prescott was the Butterfly\u2019s tireless\nescort everywhere, and they were usually anxious to have Cartice with\nthem, and often they came together to pass a few hours with her in the\nevening, as she was invariably alone, Doring finding places more to\nhis taste than the one he called home. Some of Prescott\u2019s friends said\nmore than once that he was growing gentler and kinder, both on paper\nand off.\n\nOne evening the three friends were together in Cartice\u2019s apartment.\nPrescott\u2019s face was radiant, with a light never seen there before. It\nrefined and softened his rugged features, making his countenance sweet\nand sunny.\n\n\u201cHe has spoken,\u201d thought Cartice, \u201cand this is the light of love that\nhas naught to fear.\u201d\n\n\u201cChildren,\u201d he said, after a time, with an unusual sweetness and\nconfidence that became him well, \u201cdear children, I am going to have\nhappiness.\u201d\n\nBoth looked at him in affectionate inquiry.\n\n\u201cWhat kind of happiness?\u201d asked the Butterfly, in a low voice, for\nthere was that in his face which made them feel they were upon holy\nground.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know! I don\u2019t know! That\u2019s the inexplicable part of it. Yet\nit seems so near I can almost reach out my hands and grasp it. This\nfeeling has been upon me all day, and grows stronger every moment. I\nnever experienced anything like it before. I don\u2019t know why or whence\nit comes, nor can I explain it well; but I feel it. Yes, I am very near\nto something good--near to happiness at last.\u201d\n\nHis voice sank low, and its tones had a thrilling sweetness, a\nholy joy. His companions listened in silence, under a spell, their\nastonishment too vast for words. This was strange talk to come from him.\n\nAs in reverie he went on, after a pause, \u201cAll my life I have wondered\nhow it would seem to be happy--really happy--if only for one hour.\nMisery I know well; but happiness and I have never met. Now, it is\nso near that I am already in its sunshine.\u201d And he smiled, with the\nwonderful light on his face, and the smile was strangely sweet and\nbeautiful.\n\nThe Butterfly shook herself out of the seriousness that was upon her,\nand said:\n\n\u201cYou are going to have money--plenty of money--all unexpected as it\ncomes in stories, and then--then you must give a big supper and Cartice\nand I will wear our prettiest gowns and be queens of the feast.\u201d\n\nHe looked at her and smiled again, but did not even hear her chatter,\nfor his soul was revelling in soundless melody. The exaltation was\nstill on his face when he and Chriss bade Cartice good-night.\n\nIt was ten o\u2019clock next day when Mrs. Doring reached the _Register_\noffice. The entrance was full of men, with frightened faces, one of\nwhom motioned to her to stop. Obeying, she stood in her tracks, chilled\nwith a sense of disaster, until he reached her.\n\n\u201cYou must not come in,\u201d he said. \u201cThere has been an accident at the\nelevator, and--Prescott is dead.\u201d\n\nIn silence she turned away. \u201cAnd this was the happiness he felt so\nnear to him--this?\u201d she gasped. \u201cYes; it was so near, yet he did not\nunderstand, and we did not understand. And it was this! It was this!\u201d\n\nPrescott and death were irreconcilable. He was typical of life, force\nand action. Who could think of him as out of the conflict, as voiceless\nand silent? How could they ever learn to speak of him as one who was\nbut is not?\n\n\u201cSaw you nothing, Chrissalyn--nothing that portended this?\u201d Cartice\nasked.\n\n\u201cNothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cYet we had a sign, and were too blind to see it. His glorified\nface last night, and his strange feeling that happiness was near to\nhim--these were signs, though we understood them not.\u201d\n\nFrom the first a sense of the unreality of what had occurred came to\nMrs. Doring and never left her. She followed the sable carriage of the\ndead to the cemetery, and returned to find his chair vacant, his pen\nidle, his presence gone forever, yet it was not like reality,--none of\nit. She shed no tears, nor was she sad. After the first startled moment\nshe was at peace, though she knew not why.\n\nLater she understood, as will all of us after a little time. Now we\nweep and moan over sorrow, questioning it all, resenting it all; but a\nday is coming when we shall see and know and understand, and in that\nday we shall re-name many things, having until then miscalled them.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow another serious event confronted Mrs. Doring. She had done her\nbest to save her husband from himself but could not. Now she saw\nclearly at last, after much striving to bring compatibility out of\nincompatibility, that their union was a sham, a pretence, a lie, which\nif persisted in could only bring destruction to both of them. The\nconviction came to her that it must end.\n\nFew experiences are bitterer or sadder for a sensitive, proud,\nhigh-spirited woman, than to face a domestic calamity like this. To see\nthe love upon which she had founded her dearest hopes turn to ashes;\nto have what she once thought happiness become a burden so intolerable\nthat it must be cast down, acknowledging disappointment, defeat and\nhumiliation before the world, is, indeed, a bitter cup.\n\nThe coarse, the malicious, the undeveloped have sneers, jeers and\ntaunts for this order of sufferer; but the enlightened, the truly moral\nbow before her reverently, not only because she has suffered, but\nbecause she stands for a great principle.\n\nThat the separation must be legal as well as actual, she saw would be\nbest for both. Though the laws of their state were as humane as most\nothers, still they had not evolved beyond the point, where in order to\nsecure freedom from irksome marital bonds one of the parties must make\na damaging charge against the other.\n\nIn talking it over with her husband she said, \u201cWe can arrange that as\ndecently as the law will permit. If I make the application, I shall put\nit on the most inoffensive ground possible. If that is not agreeable to\nyou, I will leave you and you can charge me with desertion.\u201d\n\nDoring determined to do at once what he had long been arranging to do\nslyly, which was to go away himself, and as a Parthian arrow announced\nthat he had intended to do so for sometime, but not alone.\n\nIt was a curious ending of the most delicate and important relation in\nlife. Cartice gathered his effects together, packing everything with\ncareful hands. When he went she watched him out of sight, and out of\nher life. Late into the night she still sat at the window, with a white\nface and eyes that stared into the darkness yet saw only the scenes of\nthe past.\n\nWhen Louis Doring boarded the train that evening he knew that within\nawaited him the sharer of his future fortunes.\n\nHis story can soon be told. It was the natural outcome of his weak,\nselfish, stubborn and vain character. A few months later, deserted by\nthe companion he had taken with him, penniless and alone in a southern\ncity, he fell a victim to a malignant fever and passed out of life.\n\nCartice saw a brief mention of his death in a daily newspaper of the\ncity in which it occurred. Accompanied by the faithful Butterfly she\nwent at once, arriving there in time to put his mortal part out of\nsight with the decency custom requires.\n\nThese two loving hearts, both bruised from sad experiences, sat\ntogether late that night, talking of the curious events we call life\nand death. What they knew of one made it almost as terrible as the\nother.\n\n\u201cAh, Butterfly, dear,\u201d said Cartice, \u201cI envy the women who have lost\nhusbands worth lamenting. Such tears would be sweet, not bitter.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou call me a seeress, sometimes,\u201d said Chrissalyn, \u201cand perhaps I\nam, for I have been looking off into the future--a future that is very\nfar away, indeed--and I see you, and you are happy. At least I read it\nso, for there is light all about you, and your face is like a picture\nof joy, it is so bright. And you are more beautiful than the sun, of\nwhose radiance your clothes are made. But I am not with you, and it is,\noh! so far away--so far that it looks to be even on the other side of\ndeath though that is a queer way to put it. Yes, you will be great and\nrenowned some day as well as happy; but the road there is so long--I\ndon\u2019t understand it--as long as several lives put together, I should\nsay.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you, child of the far-away eyes, see you naught for yourself?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; I never do; but I have a firm belief that I am yet to have satin\ncouches and plenty of time to rest on them.\u201d\n\nSplendor be it observed, was her deal of bliss, which was natural, she\nbeing a butterfly.\n\nThat night while her friend slept, Mrs. Doring sat by the open window\nthinking of the cold, still form she had seen put out of sight that\nday, and wondering with a chill sense of awe where now was the soul\nthat had been represented by it. The moonlight whitened everything, and\nadded its electric beauty and pale sadness to the loneliness of the\nnight. She recalled other nights when that form had pulsated near her,\nand yet her spirit had been as lonely as now.\n\nWhat did it all mean, the loving and the suffering, the dreaming and\nthe awakening, the meeting and the parting? The road together had been\nlong and hard, yet here was the end--the same end to which all roads\nlead--but what was the purpose of it all?\n\nThe problem of life; what can it be but the development of the\nindividual, the unfolding of the soul, that marvelous, persistent,\ngod-like thing of whose unlimited possibilities we are but beginning\nto dream? And all that we do and have done to us, enjoy and suffer,\nthink and dream, hope and aspire, make to that end, and are necessary\nand therefore good.\n\nMemories came to her from a remote past, that antedated her birth--or\nso it seemed, for their origin was not within her earthly experiences.\nYet surely they were memories, for one and all met with recognition.\nFaces she had loved came and smiled their sympathy and fondness.\nFamiliar voices spoke to her--voices whose heavenly sweetness mortal\near hath not heard. Snatches of songs, celestial in their thrilling\nmelody, floated by. Scenes restful and beautiful unrolled themselves\nfor a moment and were gone. But it was the inner eyes which saw and the\ninner ears that heard.\n\nYes, she knew them all, for they were her people, her very own people,\nof whom she was always dreaming, and for whom she was always searching.\nThey had come to comfort her. See, all smiled, not one wept, and their\nwords and songs were joyous.\n\n\u201cMy own people! My dear people, I shall yet find you,--I am finding\nyou,\u201d she said, glancing at the Butterfly\u2019s pretty face, with its crown\nof sunshiny hair on the pillow, and thinking of Prescott, with his head\nlike carven granite and eyes of fire; and others, with some of whom\nshe had clasped hands but once, yet knew them as her own.\n\nBut what of the new-made narrow mound in the cemetery? It presented\nitself at the end of every life, mutely asking an explanation of its\nexistence. This was the wall against which the race of man has ever\nbeaten the wings of inquiry. There it always stands, unresponsive and\nforbidding, the grim silence, like the shores that shut in the sea,\nsaying, \u201cThus far shalt thou come and no farther.\u201d\n\nYet above and beyond the awe and wonder that filled her soul, was that\ncurious sense of the unreality of death which had come when Prescott\nwent away and still remained.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XI.\n\n                A LITTLE BOARD BRIDGES THE GREAT GULF.\n\n Even here the soul of man is a member of the immaterial world; present\n and future, life and death, make one continuous whole in the order of\n spiritual nature.\n\n --_Kant._\n\n\nCartice Doring was one of those blessed beings who intermeddle not\nwith the affairs of another. She asked no questions and was free from\nthe vulgar vice of curiosity. She listened with sympathetic interest\nto all confidences that came to her, but solicited none. This made her\na charming and lovable friend. Speaking once of the pernicious habit\nsome well-meaning but ill-taught persons have of asking where you were\nborn, if your parents are living, what religion you adhere to and the\nthousand other catechetical shots which compose their list of topics of\nconversation, she said:\n\n\u201cThere may be a reason why the simplest and apparently most inoffensive\nquestion may give pain, so I never ask any. I have no wish to, for I\nhave no curiosity. When I make a new acquaintance I am not concerned\nwith the locality of his birth, the residence of his parents, or any\npart of his personal history. What he _is_ individually, not the\naccidents of his life, interests me, and that reveals itself as I\nbecome acquainted with him, without any probing on my part. Neither do\nI wish to bore into the sacred recesses of a friend\u2019s heart. What she\ntells me I shall listen to lovingly; what she does not tell me I do not\neven wish to know.\u201d\n\nHence it was that when the Butterfly fell into a meditative mood one\nevening when they were together, Cartice did not disturb her. By and by\nChrissalyn said:\n\n\u201cI dreamed of Prescott last night. At least I suppose it was a dream,\nthough it seemed extremely real. I was walking on the street and\nmet him, and he held in his hand that queer little heart-shaped toy\nsomebody sent you once--a thing with a French name that I don\u2019t recall\nnow, but you said it meant \u2018little board.\u2019--It has three legs, and one\nof them is a pencil.\u201d\n\n\u201cA planchette,\u201d suggested Mrs. Doring.\n\n\u201cYes; that\u2019s it. Well, Prescott held that up before me and said, \u2018Try\nit, Butterfly! Try it!\u2019\u201d\n\nCartice\u2019s eyes widened with interest.\n\n\u201cYou remember we did try to write with it once long ago,\u201d said the\nButterfly, \u201cbut it only wrote foolishness, so we flung it aside and\nnever tried again. I have been thinking about it all day, and should\nlike to try it again, for I can\u2019t get Prescott\u2019s face, as I saw it last\nnight, out of my mind.\u201d\n\nThe planchette was brought forth, and its history retold. The donor was\na man from whom Death had taken every member of his family. For years\nthe desire of his heart had been to know if the dead are dead, or if\nthey still live though unseen of men. After he went to another city,\nhe wrote Mrs. Doring that he had received some startling revelations\nthrough Planchette, and sent her one, that she might experiment for\nherself. Having some ability with the brush and palette, he had painted\nan allegory on the under side of the tiny walnut board. Psyche in the\ncelestial robes was passing upward out of sight. Cupid in fashionable\nmodern attire, had thrown aside his bow and arrows, and held his right\nhand on a Planchette, upon which he concentrated all his attention,\nsaying to it:\n\n  \u201cTell me hopeful messages\n    To beguile earth\u2019s sorrow;\n  But of evil things, Oh! keep\n    Silence till to-morrow.\n  Then, perchance, I\u2019ll be asleep.\u201d\n\n\u201cA pretty thought,\u201d said Cartice, displaying the picture, and reading\nthe text aloud. \u201cLove is always anxious to know the fate of the soul.\nHe hopes, but seeks for something to keep hope alive. Benson wrote me\nextraordinary things about Planchette, but I tried it several times and\ngot nothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I got something when I tried,\u201d said Mrs. Layton, with an air of\ninterest. \u201cTo be sure it was rank nonsense, but it was something, and\n_I_ didn\u2019t do it myself, whatever it was.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; you said it was the work of the devil, and flung the planchette\naside in disgust. What a convenience the devil is, anyway! How could\nthe world get on without him? Everything the veriest dunce doesn\u2019t\nunderstand is laid at his door. If he had never been invented, who\nwould shoulder all the mysteries? Poor devil! Without being to blame he\nhas been a terrific stumbling-block to the enlightenment of mankind.\nWherever a persevering and heroic mind clipped out a crevice in the\nwall of ignorance, some dense-minded being was on hand to seize the\ndevil and put him into it, to obscure whatever light might filter\nthrough. And so, though innocent himself, he has kept mankind in\ndarkness through the centuries.\u201d\n\nHowever, devil or no devil, they covered a table with a big sheet of\nwhite paper, of the kind used by the _Register_, and put Planchette\nupon it. The Butterfly put her tiny hand thereon, and they awaited\nits pleasure. As they were ignorant of the particular methods of its\noperation, they could but grope tentatively till they found the true\nway, just as the human race has groped upward through countless vain\nexperiments and innumerable grievous blunders into such light as it now\nenjoys.\n\nThe occasion was in no way tinged with solemnity. They built no hopes\non its outcome, nor gave it serious thought. It was the Butterfly\u2019s\ninspiration, born of her dream. So little importance did they attach\nto it, that they fell to chatting of other things at once, leaving\nPlanchette to its own devices, Mrs. Layton\u2019s hand still resting on it,\nhowever.\n\nSuddenly their chatter ceased. Planchette began to move across the\npaper, not aimlessly, as they expected, but deliberately and precisely,\nwith intelligence and force. As suddenly as it had begun it stopped.\nThey lifted it up and looked at its trail, and there was a word plainly\nand evenly written--the word \u201cGaily.\u201d\n\n\u201cMore of its nonsense, just as I feared,\u201d sighed the Butterfly, in\ndisgust.\n\n\u201cWell, try it again, dear,\u201d pleaded her friend. \u201cIt\u2019s worth studying,\neven if it does write nonsense. It\u2019s extraordinary that it writes at\nall.\u201d\n\nWith polite alacrity it wrote again with more ease and speed than\nbefore: \u201cDo you not remember Gaily--Gaily, the Troubadour?\u201d\n\nThis had no meaning for the Butterfly, and she was about to express her\ndispleasure, when she glanced at her friend. Cartice was leaning far\nback in the chair, her face white and drawn, her mouth slightly open,\nher eyes startled and staring, and her breath coming in gasps.\n\n\u201cO Cartice, dearest! Don\u2019t look like that! Don\u2019t!\u201d Chrissalyn cried\nin a terrified voice, jumping up and seizing her friend in her arms,\nalternately shaking and embracing her. \u201cWhat is it? What do you see?\nWhat has happened?\u201d\n\nMrs. Doring tried to speak, but her mouth was parched and dry, her\ntongue leaden. She could only point with her finger at the writing.\n\n\u201cYes, yes; but it\u2019s only foolishness--a line out of one of Moore\u2019s old\nsongs. Don\u2019t be frightened at the silly thing. It must have come from\nmy mind somehow, though I wasn\u2019t thinking of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt means everything to me,\u201d Cartice gasped at last. \u201cI understand it.\nTry again, dear. Try again. I will explain presently.\u201d\n\nRather rebelliously Chrissalyn straightened Planchette and put her\ntiny hand again upon it, growling; \u201cI feel more like smashing the\nmischievous thing than humoring it, since it gave you such a fright.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was not fright, dear. It was astonishment, awe, wonder--many\nemotions blended, but fear was not among them.\u201d\n\nSeveral minutes passed but Planchette moved not. The operator\u2019s\npatience would have been exhausted, had not her friend kept her\nfaithful to the work with cheering speeches. Presently the weird little\ninstrument began to walk off again, leaving this line in big, bold\nletters:\n\n\u201c_Gaily, the Troubadour, offers his love once more to the tall, young\npine._\u201d\n\nCartice read it aloud, then threw up her hands and burst into\nweeping--a weeping that was half-laughing, an ebullition of pent-up\nemotion like that which comes at the fortunate ending of a long strain\nof anxiety.\n\n\u201cHe lives! He lives!\u201d she cried, in passionate joy. \u201cAll live--all, all\nwho have gone out of our sight into the silence. Not one is dead. Not\none has ever died. The greatest of questions is answered.\u201d\n\nPicking up Planchette she touched her lips to it reverently. Then\nputting her arms around her dazed friend, she kissed her again and\nagain, saying:\n\n\u201cChrissalyn, dear Chrissalyn, you have always been a blessing and a\ncomfort to me; but now you have opened the whole universe to me; you\nhave given me light--the brightest light that can come to any one.\nThat scrawling line tells me more than any volume ever printed could.\nIt is from an old-time friend, who died soon after I last saw him, one\nwho loved me well. His name was Westfield, but because of his fondness\nfor quoting from Moore in political speeches, and what the slang of\nnewspaper offices calls \u2018fine writing,\u2019 his chums dubbed him, \u2018Gaily,\nthe Troubadour,\u2019 and by this affectionate nickname one of his old\ncomrades frequently addressed him in my presence. And he named me a\ntall young pine. You knew none of this, for I am sure I never told you\nabout him. Therefore it cannot have been taken from your mind, neither\ncan it have been drawn from mine, for I never thought of _him_. If\nI had any one in mind, it was Prescott, because you had dreamed of\nPrescott in connection with Planchette, and because I have wondered\nso much about him since he went away--wondered in what part of the\nuniverse his dauntless spirit has found action, or if he _is_ at all.\nYet I scarcely dared hope even for him, for there was the possibility\nthat death was the end of everything. I had no proof to the contrary.\u201d\n\nThe Butterfly was a trifle dazed by the emotion of her friend, who\nwas usually so self-possessed. Even by the light of her explanation\nshe could scarcely take it in. The subject of death, no matter how\ntreated, was repugnant to her. Even proof that death was not death had\nbut little interest for her. Of course there was something afterward.\nEverybody knew that. Wasn\u2019t it all set down in the books somewhere,\nstraight enough? But what was the use of dwelling on a subject that\nhad so many unpleasant features in it? Or why delve after the facts in\nregard to it? That was her manner of dealing with this mighty question.\nWhat attracted her was life--yes, life, poor, cramped, hard and ugly\nas some of it had been for her, still she loved it, found joy in it,\ncraved it and its material pleasures and never wanted to be reminded\nthat it had an end. A new gown could arouse her enthusiasm, and a\nflashing jewel give her supreme pleasure; but death, ugh! who wanted to\ntalk of so gruesome an event? Dead people lived somewhere, as a matter\nof course, but wasn\u2019t it best to let them alone in their own place\nwherever it is, and have nothing to do with them?\n\nThis is a curious attitude of mind toward a subject of more importance\nto us than any other, yet thousands of presumably intelligent people\nthink the same. They want the dead treated like dangerous criminals,\nalthough their nearest and dearest may be of them. They shut them away\nwith relentless cruelty, doing their best to put them out of their\nvery thoughts. In this way they slay them more effectually than Death\nhimself has slain them. Resistlessly they move on to the same end\nthemselves, yet zealously refuse to learn aught of what that end may\nbe. Astonishing mental darkness and indolence, but alas! not uncommon.\n\nIt was some time before Cartice recovered self-possession and induced\nher friend to go on with the experiment. But the chain was broken,\nPlanchette refused to move again.\n\nStill, Mrs. Doring had enough to dwell upon. Late into the night she\nlay awake, thinking of it, marveling at it and rejoicing in the new\nlight that had come to her. True, it was a little thing, perhaps, or\nmight appear so to those who are ever ready to make havoc of whatever\ndiffers from the usual and accepted, but its possibilities might be\nlimitless, and already it had expanded her world into infinity.\n\nWhatever the intelligence that acted through Planchette might be, it\nwas subject to a law in its manifestations, of which as yet she knew\nnext to nothing. For more light thereon she must study by experiment.\nSimple as this law appeared to be in its operations, it was mighty in\nits results, since it annihilated space and destroyed death, the last\nand greatest enemy whose destruction has long been foretold. But are\nnot all nature\u2019s laws astonishingly simple, when understood? So simple\nthat the searcher after knowledge, filled with delusion that it was\nafar off on inaccessible heights, for ages passed them by, trod them\nunder foot, touched them at every turn, yet found them not.\n\nA few evenings later the two friends were ready to begin the\nfascinating work of experimenting with Planchette, the Butterfly\u2019s\ntiny hand resting on its heart-shaped back, inviting it to action. Was\never priestess of the occult so emphatically a creature of worldly\nattributes as she? Her pretty face, soft, fair hair, slight, graceful\nfigure modishly attired, and gentle bearing conveyed no suggestion of\npower to reveal hidden mysteries.\n\nIn silence they waited a little while, Planchette as still as could\nbe. Then, unexpectedly it whirled away at a startling pace, with a\nforce well-nigh resistless. When it reached the end of the paper, which\ncompletely covered the table, they picked it up and carried it back to\nthe place of beginning, the hand of the pretty priestess was replaced,\nand it went on at tearing speed, until its message was finished. Then\nthey looked and saw this in big, firm chirography:\n\n\u201c_Love laughs at Death as well as at locksmiths--Pagan._\u201d\n\nCartice read it aloud with a whitening face and staring eyes.\n\n\u201cPrescott!\u201d she whispered, with a husky voice, motioning to Chrissalyn\nto put her hand again on Planchette. Pagan was a name she had given\nhim and which he delighted in, though unknown to any but her. The\nlittle board whirled away again with the same determined swing. Its\nvery movements were characteristic of him, who had ever a trace of\nsavageness and fierceness in all he did and much that he said. These\nwere its words:\n\n\u201c_Butterfly, tell her what I told you as we went home that last night._\u201d\n\nNow Chrissalyn began to tremble and tears gushed from her shining eyes.\nThe conviction that it was Prescott who thus silently spoke to them\ncame to her with overwhelming force.\n\n\u201cCartice, it is Prescott, I am sure. He loved you with all his heart,\nand you know how intense that heart was in everything. I saw it from\nthe very day I introduced him to you at the market house, when we went\nto hear Gabriel Norris preach. He adored you, but never spoke of it,\nand you were too blind and had too little vanity to see it. But that\nlast night before his death, when he and I were walking home together\nafter we had spent the evening with you, he told me about it. You\nremember he spoke of having a presentiment that happiness was near\nhim, and he looked almost transfigured that night. He said he believed\nthat somehow you would soon be free from your husband, and then he\nwould take you whether or no. He swore to that. But the next morning he\nwas dead. That\u2019s what he wants me to tell--that\u2019s what he means when\nhe says \u2018Love laughs at death as well as at locksmiths.\u2019 He is the\nsame--just the same kind, fierce old savage. He loves you still.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, Butterfly, this is astonishing,\u201d said Cartice, in amazement. \u201cI\nthought you and he loved each other, and that you were made for each\nother.\u201d\n\n\u201c_I_ loved him; but he loved you, not me.\u201d\n\nThis touched Mrs. Doring beyond her power to express. She tried to\nspeak, but could say nothing, for a great lump, like a live coal, had\nclosed her throat.\n\n\u201cI was never jealous,\u201d continued Chrissalyn, \u201cno, never; but a trifle\nmelancholy at times, wishing he loved me instead of you, because I saw\nthat you didn\u2019t love him, only as a good comrade, and didn\u2019t know that\nhe loved you. If you had loved him I don\u2019t think I should have been\njealous, because I love you so much.\u201d\n\nBoth pairs of eyes were moist now. Cartice rearranged Planchette, and\nafter kissing her friend\u2019s dainty hand placed it thereon again.\n\n\u201cYes; it is true, I love you, Cartice, and did from the beginning,\u201d\nwrote the little board, with the same impetuous dash.\n\n\u201cI thank you for telling me,\u201d said Cartice, humbly. \u201cBut how are we to\nbe sure that you are Prescott. Give us a proof if you can, though it be\nonly to write your name in the old way.\u201d\n\n\u201cGordon Prescott,\u201d was instantly and rapidly written in the firm,\nsharp-pointed handwriting characteristic of the man--a good fac-simile\nof the original signature, even without making allowance for the\nclumsiness of the implement. Then came \u201cGood-night\u201d in the same hand,\nand nothing could induce Planchette to further movement.\n\nThey talked it over. Even Chrissalyn was interested. Prescott writing\nthrough Planchette did not seem like dead people coming back in the\ngruesome way she dreaded. Rather was it as though he had never died,\nbut only become invisible. There was nothing about this to inspire\nterror. After the first surprise of it, it even seemed natural; and it\nwas a pleasure to have a word from him, though it were of his love for\nanother. What matter? She loved him,--that was enough. And it was a\ncomfort to know that he was sometimes near, in spite of the fact that\nshe had believed dead people ought to keep to themselves. However, with\nPrescott it was different. Somehow he was not dead people.\n\nThen, too, the priestess had her vanity--a streak of the kind that\nwants appreciation for her ability as well as her beauty. Cartice\u2019s\ngifts of pen and pencil she had craved, if not envied. Now that she\nknew she had a power her friend had not--one which Cartice thought of\ninestimable value--she saw that this gave her additional importance in\nMrs. Doring\u2019s eyes, hence she secretly plumed herself a little.\n\nShe consented to continuing their experiments with Planchette on\ncondition that no one else should ever be told. Were it known, she\nwould be called a \u201cspirit medium,\u201d and that would be disgraceful,\nunendurable. They might say almost anything else of her and she\nwouldn\u2019t mind; but to have that name fastened upon her would be a\ncalamity.\n\nA \u201cmedium!\u201d To her the word was beyond words in its despicable\nsignificance. Were not mediums a disreputable order of human buzzards,\nwho preyed upon the credulity and holiest emotions of honest folk?\nWere they not despised, abhorred, shunned and feared by the better\nclass of society? Were they not ignorant, frowsy, ugly and generally\ndirty? Did they not invariably say \u201csect\u201d when they meant \u201csex,\u201d\nand talk mind-weakening twaddle about \u201ccontrols,\u201d \u201cinfluences,\u201d\n\u201cimpressions\u201d and so on, in English that was in open warfare with all\ngrammatical rules? And were they not frequently chummy with invisible\nIndians,--going about boasting that they were constantly attended by\nsome \u201cBlackhawk,\u201d \u201cFire-eye,\u201d \u201cThunder-Tongue,\u201d \u201cYellow Feather,\u201d or\n\u201cCrow-on-the-head,\u201d who made them the mouthpieces of idiotic gibbering?\n\nDo they not come out of cabinets, wearing trailing robes and tin\ncrowns, trying to palm themselves off as dead and gone kings and\nqueens? Have they not an uncanny affinity for tables? And do they not\ntalk through trumpets, ring bells and play other stupid pranks and\nlay the blame of it all on the defenceless dead? Had they not thrown\ndiscredit upon Noah Webster himself, accusing him of a written message\nwhich said, \u201cIt is tite times\u201d?\n\nTruly their sins were as scarlet. Cartice admitted their iniquities\nwithout argument, and promised her friend that never, never, even in\nher most secret thoughts would she call her a medium, much less breathe\nthe opprobrious epithet to others.\n\nThey went patiently on with their investigation, devoting two evenings\na week to Planchette and telling no one. It was by no means all fair\nweather work either. They soon found that the only thing they could\nbe sure of was that they could depend on nothing; that with the\nintelligence which manipulated Planchette no contract could be made.\nThey came, or they came not, just as it suited their good pleasure, and\nwere obedient to no mandate or appeal. They were arbitrary always, and,\nas in most affairs of life, it was the unexpected that happened. From\nwhat the investigators could learn, it would seem, as Mr. W. T. Stead\nsays, that although this world is queer the next appears to be queerer.\n\nAs they went on, they held more and more to the belief that they were\nactually communicating with persons who had lived in flesh-and-blood\nbodies like our own, and who still lived, retaining the same\ncharacteristics that distinguished them here, but invisible to our\neyes--inhabitants perhaps of the much discussed Fourth Dimension of\nSpace. At least, one and all represented themselves as the persons whom\nwe call dead, but who live--live in a freer, larger life.\n\nOccasionally they gave proofs of their identity so convincing that all\ndoubt vanished. They made it clear that the spark of divinity we call\nindividuality is a persistent, indestructible, deathless thing. Again,\nmessages were written which were not only trifling and valueless, but\nalso unsettling.\n\nHowever, Cartice and the pretty priestess went on, feeling their way\nthrough laws as yet scarcely discernible, but stupendous. It was soon\nevident that each spirit could manifest its individuality through\nPlanchette as forcibly and unmistakably as is done here by means of\nepistolary correspondence--more clearly, perhaps, since when the little\nboard writes, its movements and general behavior betray the mannerisms\nof the unseen writer. When a woman spoke through it the feminine touch\nwas unmistakable, and the writing itself showed the finer element of\nfemininity. It must be remembered that the Butterfly, as the visible\noperator, was simply part of the implement. The real writers were\ninhabitants of the unseen world. These the two investigators sometimes\nspoke of as spirits, though they realized that assuredly they were\npeople like ourselves, though existing under different conditions.\nThey were spirits, without doubt; yet so are we, though most of us are\nunaware of our true being.\n\nBut few women came. Cartice was surprised at this, and asked one the\nreason why. She said the men were stronger, and were so eager to write\nthat they crowded women out and took possession of the opportunity.\nHence it may be supposed that masculine selfishness is not eliminated\nfrom the character by dropping the body, and that what we call brute\nstrength, (which is in reality, strength of the spirit) is still\nformidable where bodies, as we know them, are not.\n\nIt was noticeable that these invisible folk seldom spoke of themselves\nas dead. They had almost no use for the word. They spoke of those we\ncall living as \u201cpeople still with you,\u201d and of those whom we call dead\nas \u201cwith us.\u201d When asked if they knew such and such a person, they\nsometimes met the question with the inquiry, \u201cIs he with you or with\nus?\u201d\n\nAt times they readily wrote during a whole evening, first one, then\nanother, and so on, each writer showing a different personality by\nmeans of manner, chirography, style of speech and character of thought.\nAt such times page after page as large as the table top would be\ncovered. Again, evenings would pass with but trifling results, and now\nand then no communication whatever would be received. Nor could the\ninvestigators learn the reason of this. Simply, so it was, and the fact\nhad to be accepted without explanation.\n\nThe revelations were not always serious. Occasionally they were of\nclown-like jollity, evidently proceeding from clownish intellects.\nFrequently the writers refused to give any clue to their identity, and\nas for names there was a palpable avoidance of them that was puzzling.\nOccasionally a name would be given as readily as when its owner was\nhere, but usually friends and acquaintances revealed themselves by\ntheir peculiar characteristics and references to past events, and this,\nof course, was the better method, as any mischievous spirit could\npretend to be somebody else, if names were the sole reliance.\n\nPrescott came often, and was always unmistakably Prescott. Transition\nhad not changed him. His individuality, so original, distinct and\nstrong, was as conspicuous and recognizable, revealed through the\nlittle board, as when he had mingled with men, uttering himself boldly,\nwithout fear or favor.\n\nSometimes he burst upon his two faithful friends like a tornado,\nmaking Planchette fly fiercely. They could almost see him sweep others\naside and take possession. His speech was crisp, keen and sparkling,\nas in the old days, but, if possible, he was less communicative about\nhimself than ever. When they questioned him on that point, he made neat\nevasions; but they gathered the impression that he was not entirely\nsatisfied. Though he did not say so, they could not help feeling that\nthe activities of life here still attracted him, and that he was not\ncontent at being unable to take part in them.\n\nRemembering his sneers and jeers at all belief in the extension of\nlife beyond death, in whatever form, Cartice reminded him of them, and\nasked what he thought now of his previous errors. With his customary\nfrankness he answered:\n\n\u201cI was a fool then; but I confess now that I always believed far more\nthan I would have acknowledged. I was afraid you would think me weak if\nI admitted all I thought possible. I was a coward, you see, though I\nshowed precious little mercy to other cowards.\u201d\n\nThen she asked about his presentiment of happiness on his last evening\non earth, and he answered: \u201cI suppose it was given me so I might know\nthat the end of trouble and turmoil was at hand; but I was blind, as\nyou all are, and did not understand.\u201d\n\nShe begged him to relate his experiences in the new life from his first\nmoment of consciousness. To this entreaty he replied:\n\n\u201cI will try to do so sometime when I am better instructed than now. As\nyet I am too new here to tell you what you wish to know. I have much to\nlearn before I can be a safe teacher for anybody.\u201d\n\nTo many questions he made neither answer nor apology for his failure to\nanswer. It was plain that he could not, would not or dare not tell much\nabout the life he was now living. Once in response to a particularly\ndirect question bearing on that, he said, with a shade of sadness in\nthe words:\n\n\u201cWait in patience, and be as happy as you can till your time comes.\u201d\n\nAnd again: \u201cCould you but see how things are carried on here you would\nknow how foolish some of your questions are.\u201d\n\nFrom this they gathered that conditions in the unseen world are vastly\ndifferent from those we are familiar with here, but in what respect\nthey could form no idea.\n\nHe had been a strong advocate of cremation. When asked if he still held\nto his former opinions on that subject, he said:\n\n\u201cTo us it makes no difference what is done with the carcass. To you it\nis important that it does not endanger the public health.\u201d\n\nOnce when Cartice remarked to her friend, as they sat together awaiting\nPlanchette\u2019s pleasure, that perhaps the disembodied people suffer\nbecause of the destruction of their bodies, Prescott sprang upon them\nin a kind of fury, writing with savage haste:\n\n\u201cDo you suffer when you cut your finger-nails and throw away the\ncuttings? Or when you clip your hair and burn the clippings? The body\nis of the same character, mere waste material--cast-off clothes.\u201d\n\nWhen asked why he did not always come when they called him and awaited\nhim, he said:\n\n\u201cI wish you understood. I come when possible, but I cannot always\ncontrol the matter.\u201d\n\nSometimes Cartice and Chrissalyn devoted an afternoon to Planchette,\nbut generally with less satisfactory results than when they\nexperimented in the evening. The reason of this they could not fix\nupon until Prescott gave them a clue. On one such occasion, he said\nwith petulance: \u201cWhy do you call us in the broad day, when we can give\nyou more satisfaction at night? Day is your time for action, but night\nis ours. Life here is the antithesis of life with you. Conditions are\nreversed.\u201d\n\n\u201cMay we inquire why you cannot do so well for us in the daytime when\nyou do come?\u201d Mrs. Doring asked, humbly.\n\n\u201cBecause the vibrations of light are destructive to the power we make\nuse of for purposes of communication with you.\u201d\n\nThis, then, is a rational explanation of the dark s\u00e9ances so much\ncondemned by persons unacquainted with psychic law, and which,\nunhappily afford such fine opportunities for knavish deception.\n\n\u201cYou speak of our calling you. Does it really call you when we sit with\nthe Planchette and ask for you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; through a law it would be difficult for you to understand,\nhowever carefully I might try to explain it. Even I as yet comprehend\nit but dimly. Your thought reaches us, for thought is omnipotent in\nall the universe, and is the finest form of electricity which travels\nwith incredible speed. Your desire is a great force going forth to draw\nto you what you desire. The law of demand is met by the law of supply\nthroughout all worlds, when it is properly set in motion. Your sitting\nexpectantly, with Planchette as the instrument of communication, makes\na magnetic centre, a veritable telegraph office to which we can come\nand through which we can transmit messages. It is all done under law,\nand so is everything in the universe. Find out the laws that govern\nyour own being and there is no limit to your powers.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XII.\n\n                      AND THE PROPHET WAS STONED.\n\n Those who believe, as I do, that spiritual beings can and do, subject\n to general laws and for certain purposes, communicate with us, and\n even produce material effects in the world around us, must see in\n the steady advance of inquiry and of interest in these questions the\n assurance that, so far as their beliefs are logical deductions from\n the phenomena they have witnessed, those beliefs will at no distant\n date be accepted by all truth-seeking inquirers.--_Alfred Russell\n Wallace._\n\n\nOne Sunday afternoon when the two friends sat together, with Planchette\nas telephone to the invisible world, the responses were unusually\nprompt and full, for a daytime effort. Prescott came and was in a most\nobliging mood, as charming as of old. Without warning, when in the\nmiddle of a long sentence that he was writing at his usual furious\npace, some invisible force drew the Butterfly\u2019s arm from Planchette and\nsent the little board flying across the room. At the same instant she\nrose, raised her right hand and pointed directly before her, her face\nashy and an unearthly look in her dilated eyes. Straining her faculty\nof sight Cartice looked in the direction of her friend\u2019s outstretched\nfinger, but saw nothing. In a few seconds the beautiful seeress sank to\nher chair exhausted, with dry mouth and stiffened tongue, like one who\nreturns to consciousness after a deep faint.\n\nMrs. Doring rushed for water for her to drink, and cologne with which\nto lave her face, embraced her, and soothed her with reassuring words\nuntil she was herself again, though more subdued and humble than ever\nbefore.\n\n\u201cWhat was it, dear?\u201d asked Cartice at last.\n\n\u201cPrescott,\u201d she gasped. \u201cHe was as real in appearance as ever I saw\nhim in life. The scar on his left cheek was plain, and the tooth in\nfront that had been built up with gold was just as it used to be, for\nhe smiled and I saw it distinctly. He spoke, but I could not understand\nwhat he said. He came so sudden, and I was so frightened. I hope he\nwill never do that again. It gives me a horrible feeling to see any of\nthem.\u201d\n\nAfter a little coaxing she touched Planchette again, to ask an\nexplanation of the singular occurrence.\n\n\u201cI did not mean to frighten you, poor child,\u201d wrote Prescott, \u201cbut I\nwanted to see if I could make myself visible to you for an instant.\nThe exhaustion you experienced afterward was not all owing to fright.\nIn order to appear to you I took a certain substance from your body\nwith which to make myself visible. I made my body, for the moment, out\nof yours. That leaves you weaker, but what I took will be restored\nto you. This vital substance is everywhere, and your body, being a\nmagnet, attracts it to you, particularly when you are out doors in the\nsunlight. Oh, if you but knew the valve of sunshine, and air--pure,\nfresh air.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy couldn\u2019t I see you, too?\u201d Cartice asked. \u201cI should not be\nfrightened; but even so, I am willing to be.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have tried to lift the veil from your eyes, but cannot.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the scar and the tooth of gold? Were they not of the cast-off body\nonly, or do you have them still?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cThe human eye must have that with which to identify those from this\nside, so they are simulated as they last appeared in the flesh.\u201d\n\nOne evening, when another was writing, Planchette was unexpectedly and\nviolently flung to the floor, by a blow on the Butterfly\u2019s delicate\narm, from an unseen hand. When order had been restored, Prescott took\npossession, and it was plain to be seen that he was agitated. He wrote:\n\u201cI tried to prevent that, but could not. Chrissalyn must be prepared to\nexpect almost anything. The situation here is incomprehensible to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is it that makes the Butterfly a medium, if she will pardon the\nword?\u201d Cartice asked.\n\n\u201cSomething for which there is yet no proper word. You would call it,\nmagnetism. She is wonderful,--powerful, magnetic to the dead, as you\ncall us, as well as to the living--you cannot imagine how much.\u201d\n\nCartice had ever been sensible of a powerful and unaccountable\nattraction in her friend. She had always loved to watch Chrissalyn,\nshe knew not why, loved to be near her and never wearied of her.\nFor others, both men and women, the Butterfly possessed the same\nattraction. If she wanted to ensnare the most wary masculine mortal,\nshe had only to cast her eyes upon him and he was hers. If she wished\nfor the good-will or friendship of a woman, a smile and a pleasant word\nor two were all she need give in order to gain it.\n\n\u201cTell me, what is magnetism?\u201d was the next question.\n\n\u201cA power we cannot see but can feel--the power that attracts through\nall nature, but I cannot define it, for as yet I know very little about\nit myself.\u201d\n\nWhen asked to explain his manner of using Planchette, Prescott said:\n\n\u201cWhen the Butterfly\u2019s hand rests upon it we stand behind her, with\nour hands above hers--a few inches above--and we move her hand and\nPlanchette by the power of magnetism.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy can\u2019t you use my hand as well as hers?\u201d Cartice asked.\n\n\u201cBecause you are a positive. Your magnetism is of the controlling and\nnot the controllable kind.\u201d\n\nEarly in her investigations Mrs. Doring learned that the people on the\nunseen side of life are like unto those seen, in that there are good\nand bad, wise and foolish, busy and idle, truth-tellers and liars, sane\nand insane. Character there is exactly what it was here, growing better\nif it aspire and worse if it be indifferent to growth, for evolution\napparently goes on forever and forever.\n\nShe learned, too, that a message was not necessarily infallible,\nbecause it came from that we call a spirit. Frequently it was wofully\nfallible. Liars will lie and the mischievous make mischief wherever\nthey are. In short, undeveloped souls, no matter where they dwell, give\nvery direct evidence of their imperfection.\n\nYet, all things considered, Cartice met comparatively few obstacles in\nher study of psychic life and law. Much, to be sure, was inexplicable\nand perplexing; but that which was satisfying outweighed all that was\ndisheartening. To the harmony existing between Chrissalyn and herself\nshe attributed the remarkable success of their efforts, harmony being\nthe key to all the secrets and forces of nature. Then too they sat with\nbusiness-like regularity. Now she understood why the \u201cconditions\u201d for\nwhich professional mediums are such noted sticklers, are necessary.\n\nWhen we stop to think of it, we see that we must comply with prescribed\nconditions to do anything. If we send a letter through the post office,\nthe conditions imposed oblige us to stamp it properly and post it. If\nwe merely write the letter and fling it out of the window, ignoring the\nneedful conditions, most assuredly it will never reach its destination.\nIf we wish to make a journey the conditions oblige us to go aboard\nwhatever railroad carriage or ship will take us where we want to go.\n\nThe knowledge gained through Planchette was precious beyond price to\nMrs. Doring. \u201cIs it not the answer to the riddle of the ages?\u201d she\nasked herself. \u201cDoes it not change the face of everything, by giving\nus not only the key to death, but to the great mystery of life? In the\nlight of this knowledge life takes on an importance, a sacredness and\nresponsibility formerly inconceivable. Heretofore we have hoped that\nit goes on beyond the destruction of the body, now we know it does,\nand that we are shaping our destiny by every thought and act--building\nindeed for eternity.\n\n\u201cOf what moment are the ills of life here, with this glorious vista\nbefore us? Who, having seen this light, need be cast down by any\nearthly trouble? In the face of it are not all the experiences which\nwring our hearts and drain us of our tears mere fictions or illusions?\n\n\u201cSince Death is dead, what is there to affright or distress us? Though\nto-day be lost, to-morrow is ours. Though our dear ones pass out of\nsight there is neither separation nor bereavement. Scientific knowledge\nmakes it plain that immortality is not dependent upon belief; but is\na fact in nature. Though we may wander in any part of the universe\nthere is nothing to fear, for we are indestructible. Disease, war,\naccident, every terror known to man, is swept out of existence by this\nindisputable demonstration of our deathlessness.\n\n\u201cHow poor and pitiful is the pursuit of happiness in which all engage\nhere, when seen by the light of this revelation! Is it not clear as\nsunshine that the purpose of life is not happiness, as we misinterpret\nthe word, but growth? And how shall we grow? By getting knowledge of\nlaw and living according to that knowledge. Then we need seek no more\nfor happiness for it will be one of our indestructible possessions--the\nhappiness for which nature destined us, but which consists not in\nexternal conditions, but internal development.\u201d\n\nUnder the influence of this knowledge Mrs. Doring became transformed\ninto a new being. Her previous life now seemed to have been simply\na blind groping after the most unstable and foolish ideals,--a more\nintellectual childhood. So uplifted and filled to overflowing was\nshe with joy and gratitude that her face took on a new beauty that\nimpressed even the least observing of her friends. But one flavor of\nbitterness tinged her cup, and that was that she was forbidden to share\nthe glad tidings with others.\n\nChrissalyn had been insistent that nothing be told, and Cartice\nwas obliged to yield to her ruling on this point, and also saw the\nnecessity for it, but longed fervently to gather in many dwelling in\ndarkness and share her light with them. Why hide it under the bushel of\ntimidity? Was not all the world searching for that which had come in\nbeautiful simplicity and generous fulness to her? How grateful others\nwould be to know what she knew? She was humbly, profoundly grateful,\nand of course they, too, would be.\n\nAfter a time this pent-up fountain began to overrun its borders and\ntrickle its way to other ears. When she heard people bewailing the\ndifficult and cruel conditions under which they suffered, she could\nnot help giving of her inexhaustible store of comfort. She must say\nto them, \u201cThese things are unreal and of no moment. Your true life is\nabove and beyond them always, and is of unlimited possibilities here\nand hereafter.\u201d\n\nAnd when they wept because of some slain lamb, she said, \u201cHe is not\ndead; he never died and never shall die. This is an appearance only,\nan illusion. There is no death. Life goes on, on, without end, I _know_\nit.\u201d\n\nIn order that they might believe and be comforted, she related\nthe experiences on which her assurances were based, leaving out\nChrissalyn\u2019s name, of course.\n\nShe met the fate of all who have lovingly tried to set poor, ignorant\nhumanity free from its self-imposed chains. She was stoned.\n\nSome heard her with tolerant pity, as we humor weak-minded people by\npretending to accept their statements and vagaries, but turned from\nthe subject as quickly as they could. Not a few sneered openly, and\nwith the brutal frankness of small and self-satisfied minds coarsely\nexpressed their contempt for her credulity. Others patronizingly\nsaid they believed in _her_ honesty, but were positive she was being\ndeceived. Still others shrugged their shoulders in disgust, saying that\nthey loathed the \u201csupernatural,\u201d and would none of it. This benighted\nclass labels their dead with that obnoxious word and shoves them out\nof mind as quickly as possible. Some of the contemptible creatures who\nadvertise their lack of intelligence and breeding by putting their\nhands over their mouth when they talk to hide their impolite and\nignorant grinning, could not listen to Cartice with naked lips at all.\nBut perhaps she was most astonished at the \u201cconventional believers who\ndisbelieve,\u201d those who accept all the spirit manifestations described\nin the book of their faith, yet reject everything modern that helps to\nprove the truth of them.\n\nSome listened to her story and then asked the surprising, the\nastounding question: \u201cWhat good can come of it all, even if it be\ntrue?\u201d If the dead did not come to tell them how to make fortunate\nfinancial speculations, or whom they are destined to marry, they saw no\nuse in their coming at all.\n\nHere and there Mrs. Doring encountered some who took interest in her\nrevelations as a matter of curiosity, and wanted to gratify their love\nof wonder-mongering, by seeing Planchette at work.\n\nA few, a sacred few, gave reverent ear, and were eager to learn all\nthey could of the marvelous and mysterious thing called life; but these\nhad become as little children--receptive, and therefore were prepared\nto enter the kingdom of knowledge, which is heaven.\n\nBut, alas! for the unfortunate many who cannot be enlightened, because\nthey are already wise in their own conceit. Having lived here a score\nor two of years they fancy they know all the Creator\u2019s plans and\npurposes and can learn no more. At the door of their mind they post a\nsentinel armed with a club, whose duty it is to beat and drive away any\nstray angel in the guise of a thought or idea that may wander near.\n\nSome who did not want to be disturbed in their enjoyment of things\nexternal, pettishly said: \u201cAll you tell may be true, but one world at\na time is my motto.\u201d Yet any one who said that a child should be left\nuninstructed and unprepared for the grown-up life ahead of him would,\nvery appropriately, be called a fool.\n\nCartice learned what all prophets and teachers have learned to their\ncost--that the world is in bondage to its own ignorance, because it\nrefuses to be liberated. The minds of men are in thrall to a law we\nhave but recently named--the law of hypnotism, which is at once both\nthe agent of darkness and of light.\n\nEverybody lives continually under hypnotic influence, otherwise the\npower of suggestion. What we call public opinion is thought that has\nmassed itself into a barrier so formidable that only spirits the most\nheroic and dauntless dare assail it. The many are fused together as one\nand become a gigantic hypnotizer of men.\n\nIt has been demonstrated a million times that if there is anything a\nman cannot do it is to stand out against the united thought of his\nfellow men. Human beings, for the most part, are in slavery to whatever\nthought has formed their environment, \u201cas neat prisoners as ever slept\nin jails.\u201d In other words they are hypnotized and refuse to be aroused\nfrom their hypnotic sleep.\n\nAll who allow others to do their thinking live and die in a hypnotic\ntrance. The thought that is steadily thrown upon the minds of children\nyear after year usually hypnotizes them for life. This is proven in\ntheir religious leanings. The majority follow the lead of their parents\nand it is the same in politics. The boy is a democrat or republican,\nbecause his father was. We call it the force of early education, but we\nmight as well say early hypnotism.\n\nThe press is the greatest of hypnotic operators. It makes public\nopinion through the hypnotic principle. Its daily reiteration puts the\nminds of impressionable readers into as profound a hypnotic trance as\nany professional operator ever achieves. Every orator who sways his\naudience does so by means of the hypnotic law, and every writer who\nthrills his readers sets the same law in motion. In it lies the power\nof all government, from the primitive paternal to the broadest Republic\nthe earth has yet produced--the will of the passably intelligent few is\nimposed upon the less intelligent many.\n\nEven the most potent force known--the attraction that draws the sexes\ntogether, operates largely through hypnotism, or suggestion. Do we not\nbecome like that we hear and see and live among? Are we not the product\nof whatever thought we have absorbed during our life? In short, we are\nthat thought embodied, neither more nor less. Steady suggestion makes\npublic opinion, that terrible, formidable, irresistible wall against\nwhich new thought must beat and hack and storm for centuries sometimes\nbefore an incision can be made in it.\n\nWe are all more or less in an hypnotic sleep. Certain intellectual\nhair-splitters deprecate the use of the word, hypnotism, when employed\nto describe a condition of mind that is not sleep, as we commonly use\nthat term. Yet we may be awake to certain facts and asleep to others.\nWhen one cannot see a truth for a time and then recognizes it, we say\nhe awakens to it. Was he not asleep as far as it was concerned before?\n\nThe hypnotic principle is as old as the human race. Yea, the hills are\nyoung beside it. By means of it we have become what we are, and because\nof it our progress has been slow, for the hypnotized subject holds to\nhis illusions with a tenacity that throws barnacles into the shade.\nWe were hypnotized into the old thought that enslaves us, and must be\nhypnotized out of it into that which shall set us free.\n\nThis law is operative far beyond our range of knowledge. It links this\nworld or this state of being, rather, to the one that follows it.\n\nWhat is the spirit medium but a person under the hypnotic influence\nof a resident of the invisible world? And many who do not dream of it\nare hypnotized to an astonishing extent by suggestions from the same\nsource.\n\nTherefore, it is not remarkable that Cartice Doring found nearly\neverybody holding aggressively to the thought that had formed them,\nno matter how limited and erroneous it might be, and ready to fight,\ntooth and nail, anything contrary to it. They groaned in pain, yet at a\nsuggestion of relief from misery they but hugged it closer, lest it be\ntaken from them by force.\n\nShe did not expect any one to believe so tremendous a tale as she had\nto tell on hearsay evidence alone; but she hoped to find some interest\nand desire to search and learn. When many turned away and she grew\nheartsick because they would not let her help them with that which had\nhelped her, she thought she understood Jesus weeping over Jerusalem.\n\u201cYe would not! no; ye would not!\u201d is ever the cry of all who yearn to\nmake the yoke easy and the burden light for humanity.\n\nAnd yet no earnest effort made by any soul is entirely vain. Mrs.\nDoring found two who would among the many who would not--two who were\neager to learn, who begged for the chance. They were the Joys, the last\npersons one would expect to turn their attention to anything not known\nby the name of pleasure. As a matter of fact they were Mr. and Mrs.\nHanley, but everybody called them the Joys, because their days were an\nunbroken ripple of delight, and they were continually making a joyful\nnoise over something. They joyed in each other, in their children,\nin their friends, in their home, in the world at large, in life,\nin everything. All days of the year were for them days of jubilee.\nEverybody welcomed them because they carried with them a joyful\natmosphere, a little of which generally rubbed off and stuck to those\nwhom they visited, for a time at least. A gay, guiltless pair were\nthey, with no need of prayer, and no sins to be forgiven, so far as\nany one could see. It may be wondered why they cared to learn anything\nabout life\u2019s extension since they found this world so pleasant. Yet\ncare they did, and gladly turned from the impermanent things of the\nworld that had delighted them to study reverently the great question of\nour destination.\n\nChrissalyn liked them and was finally persuaded to let them enter\nPlanchette\u2019s charmed arena, on condition that they tell it not in Goth\nnor whisper it in Askalon.\n\nTheir very first experience was convincing beyond doubt or question.\nAll they had joyed in before was as nothing to the joy they found in\nthe knowledge that came to them through the little board. In spite of\ntheir pleasure-loving natures and phenomenal optimism, they belonged to\nthe thinking fraternity; and now that their outlook was extended beyond\nthe boundaries that so far had hedged them in, they saw ahead an\nendless life of Joy, and that intensified and ennobled the joys of the\npresent. They had been happy always, but now they were secure in their\nhappiness--nothing could take it from them.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XIII.\n\n                        THE TONGUES OF ANGELS.\n\n  \u201cWhen by suffering thou hast learned not to suffer--by passion learned\n    calmness;\n  Then shalt thou know what I am to thee--then shalt thou be\n  A clean mirror where I am reflected--a face with a splendor which\n    burns not!\n  Past all pain, seeing Me thou shalt know Me--the Strength and the\n    Truth of Thyself.\u201d\n\n  --_Voltairine DeCleyre._\n\n Being may be called the poorest, but it is at the same time the most\n marvelous concept of our whole mind. It is the _sine qua non_ of all\n we are, we see, we hear, we apprehend and comprehend. It is not our\n body, nor our breath, nor our life, nor our heart, nor what is most\n difficult to give up--our mind and intellect. It is simply that in\n which all these reside--that, in fact, in which we move and have our\n being.\n\n  --_F. Max M\u00fcller._\n\n The truth of being and the truth of knowing are one.\n\n  --_Bacon._\n\n\nCartice and Chrissalyn permitted the Joys to join them in their\ninvestigations at certain times, but for the most part they pursued\ntheir study of psychic life alone. As they went on, their experiences\nbecame more interesting and convincing. In the new world opened to them\nthey made new friends. To be sure they could not see these friends,\nbut they learned to know them well, to love them, and to distinguish\none from another as readily and certainly as though they were of the\nvisible part of creation.\n\nOne of these new friends called himself Moreau and won their hearts\ncompletely with his courteous speech, kind instincts and gentle\nmanners. Indeed, after making his acquaintance they understood how\nlittle the personality depends upon that which we call the person,\nwhich is but a mask, as the word originally meant. He came often and\nsometimes remained a whole evening, kindly writing for those who had\nnot yet learned to manipulate Planchette, and answering questions with\nwell-bred patience and never-failing politeness. When asked why he came\nto them and remained so faithful, when he had not known them here, he\nexplained that he was attracted to both of them, because they were\nmagnetic to him; but that beside, it was his especial mission to make\nlonely women happier. They learned to rely implicitly upon everything\nhe said, just as they did on the word of Prescott, whose strict\ntruthfulness had been his one vanity.\n\n\u201cHow long is the act of dying?\u201d Moreau was asked.\n\n\u201cIt is longer for some than for others; but you are sleeping at the\ntime and know it not.\u201d\n\nThis statement was corroborated by the others. They said the\ndeath-sleep in some cases was of several days\u2019 duration,--days as we\nreckon them here, but there Time\u2019s markings are unknown, for Time is\nnot.\n\nWhen Moreau was asked whether he knew everything about his friends\nhere, present and to come, he said: \u201cNot everything. There are some\nthings we are not permitted to know any more than you are.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you pass on into other stages of existence--experience a change\nanalogous to our dying here?\u201d\n\n\u201cI think so; but I am no more certain of that than you are about your\nfuture state.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you travel?\u201d\n\n\u201cLike lightning, or even more swiftly. We think of a place and in the\nsame instant we are there. This is a thought world. So is yours, but\nyou are blind to the power of thought on your plane.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you affected by the sorrows and pains of those you love, who are\nstill on earth?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe cannot help feeling the troubles of earth when they touch what\nyou would call our heart-strings. But, as it were, we see with larger\neyes--we understand better the purpose of suffering and the good that\ncomes out of it.\u201d\n\nA friend to Cartice who had achieved considerable eminence as an\nanalytical author, came occasionally. In the noonday of success she\nwent away, after months of great physical suffering. When asked whether\nshe was happy, she replied:\n\n\u201cIt is happiness to me to have no aching heart, no pain, no burning\nbrow.\u201d\n\n\u201cCan you come to us when you please?\u201d\n\n\u201cSometimes only, not always. I feel a restraint, though no restraint\nseems put upon me.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you occupy yourself, Edith?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe do not have to occupy ourselves. We are occupied by others only. I\ncannot tell you better.\u201d\n\nWhen questioned as to the kind of clothing used there, she said: \u201cThe\nmist of earth is not a substance to be measured, weighed or worn by\nyou. The material of our raiment is a thing of almost misty texture.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is death?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo that question I will give you an explanation given me by one far\nwiser than I and much older in this realm of life: \u2018Death simply\ndenotes a rising from inactivity to action, from obscurity to eminence,\nawaking from sleep, or promotion from an inferior condition.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there a resurrection?\u201d\n\n\u201cEvery death is a resurrection.\u201d\n\n\u201cEdith, do you ever wish to be back here in the body?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever. There would be nothing to gain and much to lose.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy is it that although you and others come and talk with us clearly\nand freely at times, there is yet so much of your new life of which you\ntell us nothing?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere are many reasons, which I am not permitted to give, nor could\nyou understand them. I myself comprehend them but dimly. I simply obey\nthe law.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is the judgment, if there is a judgment?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor me it is the beholding of my mistakes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is the most wonderful phase of your present life, if I may be\npardoned for so bold a question?\u201d Cartice asked.\n\n\u201cThe knowledge that love is all there is--that it fills all universes;\nlights all worlds; encompasses every soul, and is the life of every\nsoul. This is as true of your world as of ours; but nearly all there\nrefuse to believe it. Here we cannot doubt it--that is, those who have\nlove in their own hearts cannot doubt it. Those who love not do not\nknow it, for all is darkness to them; but that darkness disappears when\nthey begin to love.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is love?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe living principle of good, which by a law that includes and governs\nall that is, constantly flows out from the infinite centre. The more\nyou have of it the more of good in its highest and best form will\nyou receive, because it is the greatest of all magnets, irresistibly\nattracting its like. Love is God. God is love.\n\n\u201cYou are destined to realize this fully some day; but you might realize\nit even now if you would, and then the whole face of the earth would\nchange and become new and beautiful. Heaven, indeed, would be opened.\nBut the love I speak of is not the sentiment that usually goes by that\nname on earth, which too often is but an exaggeration of self, a kind\nof sublimated selfishness, going out to special persons with whom your\nlives are intertwined and whose well-being particularly conduces to\nyour own. No, no; the love that is God is universal in its application,\nenfolding the humblest and most wayward as well as the highest and\nmost perfect. Cultivate this love and you will find heaven even on the\nearth. All good will come to you. It is the kingdom of righteousness\nspoken of in your scriptures, to which, if you first seek and attain,\nall other things shall be added. Love, even in its crudest, most\nselfish expression and narrowest interpretation yet has in it a spark\nof the divine principle from the great source or centre which lights\nand gives life to all worlds and all consciousness.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you could give us but one precept to live by, what would it be?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat which was given you by the beloved disciple: Love one another,\nfor love is, indeed, the fulfilling of the law. But remember that \u2018one\nanother\u2019 includes all that live. The law is not fulfilled when you\nonly love those of your own household, or such as minister to your\nenjoyment.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat are we here for? What is the purpose of life?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is the purpose of any school? Is it not to fit its pupils for\nthat which is to follow?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow can we best do that?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy the unfoldment of your souls or selves--the best possible\ndevelopment of every unit. Your ethics have taught you to aim at the\nhighest good to the greatest possible number; but the true ethics\nof love are only content with the highest possible good to each\nindividual.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do the things of earth appear to you now--the things we value and\nstrive for so hard, wealth, fame, power, pleasure?\u201d\n\n\u201cAs veils, or illusions which keep you from seeing the great and\nglorious light of truth--soap-bubbles, glistening and beautiful to the\neye, but absolutely empty.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you not suffer at separation from friends here?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is no separation. We are all one--all closely and indissolubly\nunited--and that one includes what is in your world as well as worlds\nupon worlds, far, far, beyond my power of imagination--all that is, or\nwas, or ever shall be. Sometimes death unites us more closely than ever\nto those still upon earth.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes not the spirit sometimes faint with fear, when it first becomes\naware that it has left the body forever?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was not so with me. I was prepared. During my long illness I\nthought much of the future, knowing that the end of what you call\nlife was near. In my mind I dropped the robe of flesh without regret,\nfeeling that annihilation or anything that set me free from pain would\nbe welcome. When at last I found that the silver--(otherwise the\nelectrical) cord--was loosened and the body left behind, the experience\nseemed natural. True, it was not without awe, but that feeling of awe\narose from the light and beauty, the newness and yet the familiarity of\nthat on which I had entered. Yet it is not all new, for we still have\nthe old, but understand it better--we see it with more comprehensive\neyes--from a larger and higher outlook.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there anything there to depress or sadden you?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo depress me, no; yet something akin to oppression I sometimes feel,\nbecause of the vastness, the immensity, the endlessness of everything.\nDoubtless you experience the same feeling often, when you look up\nat the stars and the mind is staggered and shrinks back upon itself\nat the majesty and grandeur of creation. But do not forget that the\nexperiences of no two souls are exactly alike here, any more than on\nearth. That which this state of consciousness means to us, or holds\nfor us, depends upon the degree of enlightenment we have attained\nbefore entering it--upon our mental, moral and spiritual attitude,\nour aspirations and desires--or character, or in short on what we have\nbecome.\u201d\n\n\u201cCan you make things there, as here--shape things out of crude\nmaterial, I mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe have no crude material. We have to do only with the finer forces.\nWith us the idea creates. We form the idea, and lo! it immediately\n_is_. We think, and the thought takes visible form. Wonderful as this\nmay seem to you, it is nevertheless as true of your world as of this,\nonly the method is slower. The idea is always the true creation, but to\nmake it objective you must give it form with the hands, out of material\nsubstance. The imagination is the creative realm.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave we each a guardian angel?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; every soul has a guide or helper, who ever works to incline one\nto good, and away from evil, yet leaves the will free. You, yourself,\nnot he, must make the decisions. He suggests, but does not lead.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is my guardian angel?\u201d Cartice asked.\n\n\u201cWho could he be if not one who loves you?\u201d\n\nOnce only Louis Doring came. He was the same as when here, full of self\nand empty of all else. Cartice did not encourage him to come again,\nfeeling the distance between them to be greater than ever,--a distance\nmeasured by an absence of sympathy, which is the only distance known\nto the soul. After uttering some of the flavorless nothings which ever\ncharacterized his conversation, he went and came no more.\n\nChrissalyn\u2019s great dread, frequently expressed, was that her husband\nor some of her near kindred might come. As long as none of her own\nhousehold came, Planchette did not seem uncanny; but again and again\nshe declared that if any one of them came she would be wretched for the\nrest of her life. Colonel Layton did not respect her wish, however. One\nnight he took her unawares, as it were. Giving Planchette a peculiar\nspin, he wrote his name as characteristically as he had ever done in\nlife. When Chrissalyn saw the signature, she burst into uncontrollable\nsobbing, and begged him to go away.\n\nCartice consoled her, and implored her to let him remain, while she\ntalked a few moments with him, and this at last Mrs. Layton consented\nto do.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t cry, Chriss,\u201d he wrote. \u201cI knew you didn\u2019t want me to come; but\nI wish to tell you that I am better here than there, just as you are\nfar better without me. So it is well as it is. I was a poor devil there\nfor a fact; but I\u2019m on the up-grade here.\u201d\n\nChrissalyn wept afresh, but heroically went on, and the Colonel wrote:\n\n\u201cMrs. Doring, why didn\u2019t you attend my funeral?\u201d\n\nCartice looked aghast, the question, at first blush, being so\nextraordinary. At some length she explained that she was too ill to go.\nEvidently reading her unspoken thought, he wrote:\n\n\u201cYes, I was present--the real I as well as the silent image of me in\nthe box. I looked around at my leisure, and saw everybody there. I\nwondered at your absence, you and Chriss being such close friends.\nBesides, you were always nice to me, too, God bless you!\u201d\n\nAt this tribute to her kindness from beyond the grave Cartice dropped a\ngrateful tear. The Colonel\u2019s nature had something childlike and sweet\nin it, in spite of its many defects. Most of his faults had been of a\npeevish and childish order.\n\n\u201cThank you, Colonel Layton,\u201d Cartice answered. \u201cI am glad to hear from\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cMrs. Doring, do you remember the conversation I had with you an hour\nor so before I made the final journey?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerfectly.\u201d\n\n\u201cI sang about death being a narrow sea that divides your world from the\nland of pure delight. Well, it\u2019s a very narrow sea--so narrow we can\nstep across. In fact it isn\u2019t a sea at all, for the two worlds are not\nreally divided. They only seem to be.\u201d\n\nSeveral times Mrs. Layton\u2019s friend, Jessie, came. When asked whether\nshe threw flowers at her own funeral, she said she did; that she knew\nbeforehand that Chriss had the faculty of seeing certain things others\ncould not, and had it in mind before she went away that she would do\nsomething to prove that death was only an illusion.\n\nCartice\u2019s great grandfather, who died before she was born, came and\nwrote his name in full, which she did not herself know. He told things\npertaining to the family, which she afterward verified, among them\nbeing the name of the political party to which he belonged, and which\nhad long been extinct. His handwriting was of an older style, and he\nwrote with a deliberation uncommon in the present day.\n\nSome communications purported to come from North American Indians,\nmighty chiefs and stalwart braves with great dignity of manner and\nimposing names. After a time, however, Cartice inclined to the\nopinion that both the manner and the names were masks used to conceal\nidentities that did not wish to be known. They spoke in the figurative\nstyle attributed to gifted red men, and for the most part their\nmessages were interesting and instructive.\n\nOnce when Mrs. Doring was very tired and discouraged one of them wrote:\n\n\u201cIs it not a pleasure to the squaw to convince the braves and old men\nthat she teaches many truths? She must not let the ink dry in her\nhorn, for she can carry many braves with her in the councils.\u201d\n\nAgain, apparently overhearing the two investigators of psychic law\ntalk of some poor, pitiful, hide-bound persons who found fault with\neverybody that did not revolve within their pint-measure orbit, this\nsame Red Feather, as he called himself, wrote with emphatic force:\n\n\u201cBe not tied by the ways of others. The eagle cannot fly with the wings\nof a chicken.\u201d\n\nOne evening Prescott wrote a few minutes and then excused himself from\nfurther work, saying that something had just occurred which made him\ntoo nervous to write.\n\nHis two friends looked at each other in speechless astonishment. Here\nwas a mystery beyond other mysteries. Too nervous? Were not nerves but\nparts of the body, destined to dust with the rest of it?\n\nEvidently understanding their amazement, he added this line after a\nmoment\u2019s pause:\n\n\u201cIncredible as it may seem to you, I still have nerves.\u201d\n\nOnce when Chrissalyn was peevish and dissatisfied, she said she had a\nmind to give up fooling with Planchette; that it was scary and risky,\nand there was no telling what was at the bottom of its queer doings.\nPrescott came like a flash to the rescue, fearful that she would put\nher threat into execution, and so cut off communication entirely.\n\n\u201cO Butterfly, dear, don\u2019t do that! Please don\u2019t, for my sake,\u201d he\npleaded, with an earnestness that touched their hearts. \u201cYou do not\nappreciate this grand, beautiful privilege, which to me is so precious.\nWho, besides you can do this--converse freely with friends so far away\nthat the railroad has never been made that can reach them?\u201d\n\nSomewhat mollified by his pathetic tribute to her extraordinary psychic\ngifts, she grumbled that for his sake she wouldn\u2019t give up Planchette.\nHe continued:\n\n\u201cHad I known as much about the unknown future, when on earth, as you\ndo, I should have thought myself wise, indeed.\n\n\u201cIt astonishes me now to remember that I ever doubted the persistence\nof the individual, the continuousness of life. Fools who think\nthemselves savants will tell you to have nothing to do with spirits,\nnot to encourage them to come back, as that interferes with their\nprogression, and other rubbish of the same sort. Such persons know\nnothing of the laws of progress here. The two worlds--in fact all\nworlds--are one and the same. Your best interests and ours are\nidentical. There is no differentiation. Frequently our work lies\nentirely with you. What higher mission could one have than to cheer\nand strengthen the disheartened and fainting ones of earth? We help\nyou, and you in turn often help us. What would you think of a friend\nwho told you never to come and visit him, but to go on and progress by\nyourself? Well, spirits are simply human beings living under conditions\nas yet not understood by you. Many of them are your friends, whom you\nwould not dream of treating discourteously while they were with you\nvisibly. The pupils of your schools go from grade to grade. Those of\nthe highest grade are not prohibited from contact with those of the\nprimary, if they wish it, and often they return there as teachers. The\ndivision between your world and ours only exists for those not yet\nfar enough developed to understand its non-existence. It is not real,\nbut only an appearance. It exists only in the consciousness of those\nignorant of the great law of oneness which is operative everywhere. And\nthis is true of many things that seem very real to you. They only exist\nin your consciousness. Also that which is not within your consciousness\nhas no existence for you whatever. We are one--all the peoples of all\nuniverses, and all are moving upward into light by means of the process\ncalled evolution, which is the unfolding and perfecting of man, who is\nspirit, not clay.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre we ever reborn into this world?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am told that rebirth is one of the many methods open to the soul for\nprogression.\u201d\n\n\u201cCan you see our future in this world?\u201d\n\n\u201cSome have this faculty. I have not. They only see the main incidents,\nas a traveler, looking from a high hill, sees a guide-post ahead in the\nvalley.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre we ever entirely alone?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever. There is always the cloud of witnesses of which Paul spoke.\u201d\n\nA stranger came sometimes whose character was of an antique mould. He\ngave no name, but others, when questioned about him, said he had been\none of the great of earth, and also one of the good--none greater since\nJesus.\n\n\u201cWhat is the soul of man?\u201d Cartice asked him.\n\n\u201cCan any one comprehend God?\u201d was his reply.\n\n\u201cI do not understand,\u201d she persisted.\n\n\u201cEternal being mirrors itself in every existence--_is_ every existence.\nWhen you know that indefinable, illimitable, deathless and divine\nmanifestation called the soul, you will know God, for in the one\nis imaged or reflected the other. Remember, eternal being is the\nbackground of every existence.\u201d\n\nLooking at these words fresh from an intelligence whose habitation\nearthly eye hath not seen, Cartice Doring thrilled with a strange\njoy, in sympathetic vibration with the wave of truth that touched her\nspirit. For one hallowed moment the great gates opened and she saw a\nlight more beautiful than the light of the morning, more glorious than\nthe light of many suns, softer, brighter, more beatific than was ever\non sea or land, for lo! she saw the reflection of the soul itself, and\nunderstood its infinite source and deathless destiny. In that ineffable\nmoment she knew that it never had birth and never should know death,\nand that separateness was not of it, nor was it divisible from aught\nthere is, and difference there was none. On the bosom of eternal being\nit rested secure through a thousand illusions.\n\nThe key that unlocked all mysteries was revealed by a flash of the\nsoul\u2019s own light. Pale and trembling she bent her head till it lay on\nthe written words of the nameless stranger, and closed her eyes that\nshe and the great white light might be alone together.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThousands of years ago an Indian sage, when parting from his wife,\nsaid: \u201cWe do not love the husband in the husband, nor the wife in the\nwife, nor the children in the children. What we love in them, what we\ntruly love in everything is the divine spirit, (the eternal atman, the\nimmortal and absolute self)\u201d--and as we should add, says Max M\u00fcller,\nthe immortal God, for the immortal self and the immortal God must be\none.\n\nLife\u2019s boundless extension and endless progression was ever the\nuppermost thought in Mrs. Doring\u2019s mind. In it she found consolation\nfor all ills, as well as explanation of them. She pitied those still\nblind to this tremendous fact. What had they to uphold them in the\nterrible conflict we make of life?\n\nWhat of the literature that only reaches the grave and there halts,\nunable to go further? Is it not the literature of children, useful only\nto amuse and entertain them in idle hours? She had adored the art of\nletters, had made a fetich of it, paying homage to its great names and\nwalking in its fair gardens with reverent steps. Now she asked herself\nwhat literature had done for the voiceless army of the dead. What\nrepresentation had they in its pages? The dead, the sacred dead, the\nbeloved dead, what had letters done to bridge the stream that separates\nthem from the living?\n\nPoets had sent them to a far-off heaven or plunged them into a\nflaming hell to suit their moods and meters. Romancers had used them\nas spectres to come upon the scene at inopportune moments and treat\ntheir readers to thrills. They were flippantly spoken of as \u201cspooks,\u201d\n\u201cghosts,\u201d \u201capparitions,\u201d and \u201csupernatural appearances.\u201d They were\ngood stock in certain brands of stories which nobody believed in,\nand occasionally they were allowed to have a bit of business on the\nstage. Witless witlings had sneered at their claims to recognition,\nand writers of many minds, however they differed on other points, were\ngenerally united in the effort to keep the dead, one and all, from\nrising.\n\nAuthors of romances found death a convenience in disposing of\ninconvenient characters of their own creation. When they could not\nmanage them effectively any other way, they slaughtered them remorsely,\nand that was the end of them; that put them out of both writers\u2019 and\nreaders\u2019 way for all time. Not even the good always escaped this doom.\nIf readers could be entertainingly harrowed and wrought upon by the\ndemise of the most angelic heroine, she had to die, and that finished\nher for friends and foes. At the grave everything ended. There love\nlaid its treasures and turned hopelessly away; and there hate sheathed\nits poniard in satisfaction, having reached its extreme limit.\n\nNow Cartice Doring saw clearly that there are no finalities here; that\nthe grave is not the end; that it never imprisoned a human soul. She\nsaw that a new literature must come forth to satisfy minds of larger\ngrowth, which look upon death, not as a finality, but a change of\ncostume and the opening of a new act. And this literature must go to\nthe point, straight and clear; it must seek the solution of life\u2019s\nproblem and not merely amuse and beguile travelers on the journey.\n\nMany a night, while she walked home after an evening\u2019s talk with her\nunseen friends, she felt in touch with all the universe. Nothing was\nfar off, not even the stars, which looked down upon earth with tender\nhuman sympathy in their bright faces. She feared nothing, and knew no\nloneliness, feeling herself attended by an innumerable company. Already\nshe believed that what Kant said will yet be proved, \u201cthat the human\nsoul, even in this life, is by an indissoluble communion connected with\nall the immaterial natures of the spirit world, acting upon them, and\nreceiving impressions from them.\u201d\n\nNow she understood more clearly the meaning of this statement by our\ngreatest philosopher, Emerson: \u201cevery man is an inlet to the Divine\nmind and to all of that mind.\u201d Yes, and an outlet, also.\n\nNow, now she began to see that \u201cthe spirit of man is a personal\nlimitation of the supreme spirit,\u201d as another philosopher says; that\n\u201cGod is the all of man\u2019s life, the power of man at bottom being the\npower of God.\u201d\n\nNow she could understand that \u201cwhat we call the material universe is\nbut the manifestation of infinite Deity to our finite minds\u201d; and that\n\u201cour individual self is found,\u201d as the ancient wisdom of the East, and\nlikewise Jesus and Paul, affirms, \u201cincluded in the contents of the\nAbsolute Being or Self.\u201d\n\n\u201cEternal Being mirrors itself in every existence,\u201d she murmured\nreverently; \u201cEternal Being, and we are it.\u201d\n\nThe pulsing, eager, feverish life of the city was stilled. Its\npeople slept, at least they were asleep to the truth, and refused\nto be awakened. Thousands of Ephraims, joined to their idols, dwelt\ncontentedly in their fools\u2019 paradise, asking to be let alone. And\nwhat were those idols? Mists of their own creation, perishable and\nunreal--for nothing endures, nothing is real but being, Eternal Being.\nLike the wayward sons and daughters of old Jerusalem, they will not be\ngathered under the wing of even divine wisdom.\n\nThe old dreams of childhood came back, with their perplexing\nreminiscence of life in a land remote in the past, whose people knew\nnot misery.\n\nHad she lived before? Yes, always. How could it be otherwise with\nEternal Being as the background, the source and centre of her\nexistence? For this there was neither beginning nor end. Was she not an\nindestructible part of all that is, was and ever shall be? Behind her\nwas no birth; before her no death. These were but \u201cworld-fictions.\u201d\n\nAnd what was she? One of the millions of conscious atoms that make up\nthe great whole--a woman walking the path alone, with a dash of genius,\noriginal, creative, commanding, it was said, and a force of will and\ncharacter that made her respected and conspicuous among other atoms.\nWhence came the genius and the force of character? From the infinite\nocean of intelligence and creative energy--from the one source and\nthe one force. Why had she gifts and qualities others had not? Because\nshe had reached upward toward the light; she had aspired, and as a\nconsequence had expanded and grown. She had mirrored more of the\nsupreme intelligence than many others, because she had desired it and\nhad held her mind receptive to it.\n\nAll her life at times she had been a prey to a deep dissatisfaction. An\nunspoken unrest, a profound melancholy lay beneath her sunniest hours,\nand she had experienced a yearning of the soul for that which perhaps\nno mortal ever attains.\n\nBut now in these nights when she walked alone under the stars,\nillumined within by the light of truth, there were moments when\nher spirit vibrated in unison with the great spirit or self of the\nuniverse, and she was satisfied. She saw humanity, like a mighty river\nrolling slowly to the sea, each drop blending with others, and all\nimpelled by a resistless force that bore them onward, they knew not\nwhence nor whither. This river was rolling toward the ocean of truth,\nthere to enjoy the freedom which was its divine destiny, and which each\natom or drop could only reach by recognizing, living and becoming the\ntruth.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XIV.\n\n                            THE SIMPLE WAY.\n\n  \u201cLife, with all it yields of joy and woe and hope and fear,\n  Is just our chance o\u2019 the prize of learning love,\n  How love might be, hath been, indeed, and is.\u201d\n\n  --_Robert Browning._\n\n\nTalking with Gabriel Norris one day, Mrs. Doring could not refrain from\ntelling him some of her astonishing psychic experiences.\n\n\u201cI have long known,\u201d he said, \u201cthat they whom we call dead are more\nalive than we are. I, too, have talked with them. Like St. Paul I am\na spiritualist, a word which generally excites fear and horror in\nunenlightened minds. I preach spiritualism, plain and pure, but I don\u2019t\nname it. Sometimes it is best not to label one\u2019s knowledge. It only\nprejudices the ignorant against it, and builds a fence around one\u2019s\nown mind as well as around one\u2019s neighbor\u2019s. A name is a limitation.\nThat\u2019s one reason why I cannot work in any organization. I keep my\nspirit free, ever ready to absorb more truth, and I preach a free\ngospel, which, like all things else is susceptible to the influence of\nnew light. Truth is not all revealed to any man. Little by little one\nlearns to know a greater degree of it, and so grows more and more free\nfrom error. What is evolution but a gradual growing out of darkness\ninto light? The proof that we live again is of tremendous importance,\nbecause with it comes the knowledge that every thought as well as every\ndeed helps in the building of our souls and our eternal destiny. That\nwe shall live always is a fact in nature, but in what estate depends\nupon ourselves, upon our thoughts, aspirations and efforts, for man is\nthe expression, or sum, of his desires. Here or elsewhere they shall be\nrealized.\u201d\n\nGabriel wished he might have the great pleasure of a word with\nPrescott, whom he loved. Chrissalyn granted permission, and he went one\nevening to see the wonders of Planchette. Prescott obligingly came,\nand when Gabriel, with tears shining in his eyes asked if he had any\nparticular message for him, answered:\n\n\u201cOnly to thank you for your good words about me in the church, when I\ncould not speak for myself.\u201d\n\nGabriel had been one of several friends, orthodox and unorthodox, who\nmade brief addresses at Prescott\u2019s funeral, which, by the grace of a\nliberal-minded and great-hearted minister, was held in a church, in\nspite of the fact that the dead editor was a bold unbeliever.\n\nAt these grateful words the eyes of the gentle preacher glistened and\nhis voice wavered with feeling, as he said: \u201cYou deserved all the\npraise I gave you. You did your best. You spoke truth and lived truth\nas you saw it. None can do more.\u201d\n\nIn saying this Gabriel unconsciously raised his voice higher and higher\ntill he ended in a shout, so natural was it to think of Prescott as far\noff because he was out of sight.\n\n\u201cThank you again, Gabriel,\u201d he wrote; \u201cbut let me tell you, that\nalthough I used to be a little deaf, I hear perfectly well now.\u201d\n\nGabriel laughed heartily as it dawned upon him that he had been\nshouting at his invisible friend, and thought Prescott must be laughing\ntoo.\n\n\u201cAre all cured of their physical defects over there?\u201d Gabriel asked.\n\n\u201cNot immediately, for illness or wholeness is a matter of the\nconsciousness, and that cannot be completely changed at once. It is\nall progression, growth, expansion, but it takes what you call time to\neffect it. There is plenty of work for you, Gabriel, here as well as\nthere.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am glad of that,\u201d said the unordained preacher. \u201cAn idle heaven\nwould be hell for me. Man\u2019s desire for action and his pleasure in it\nare strong evidence of his immortality. Were death--extinction--his\ndestiny, somehow he would have known it, and would have been indolent\ninstead of busy. It is true that much of his work is impermanent and\nuseless or worse than useless; but it is the effort he puts forth,\nthe exercise of will, that is the valuable part of it. That which he\nis really building through all his blundering and the only part of his\nwork that endures, is character.\u201d\n\n\u201cTruth, Gabriel! You speak immortal truth,\u201d Prescott wrote. \u201cNow,\ngood-night.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you really believe you have been talking with Gordon Prescott?\u201d\nCartice asked.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Gabriel, simply. \u201cI could not prove it to others; neither\ncan I prove that a letter is from the person whose name is signed to\nit, without his personal affirmation, and even that is only valuable in\nproportion to his reputation for truth-telling. Most of what we call\nproofs of anything is flimsy and fallible.\u201d\n\n\u201cI want to tell you, Mr. Norris,\u201d said Cartice, speaking with feeling,\n\u201cthat I owe you far more than you are aware of. You first gave me\nlight, and you were a mascot for me, besides, in worldly success.\nThrough meeting you the tide of my fortune, the day I met you,\nturned from ebb to flow. The drawing I made of you opened the door\nof opportunity for me. But giving me light was the greatest service.\nThat day, in your lecture at the market house you told us we were\nnot here simply to be happy; that happiness as we pictured it, was\nnot the purpose of existence; that we were here to learn and to grow\nto the perfection nature intended, as a plant or a tree grows. In\nother words, we are to unfold from the seed and express our true\nbeing. Up to that time, like everybody else, I had made the hunt for\nhappiness my chief aim. When, in consequence of that, I found myself\nswamped in misery, I considered myself injured, and felt sure somebody\nwas to blame. I could not see that I, myself, was the culprit; that\nthe selfish search for happiness must lead directly away from that\ncondition. Ah, I suffered much, much up to that time; but I see the\nuses of it now. I was being educated by the only means possible. Had I\nsecured the kind of happiness I was looking for, I should still be in\ndarkness. It was the ideal of an undeveloped mind. Now I see plainly\nthat the spiritual side of suffering is good. It means birth--the birth\nof knowledge, of light, of truth. I don\u2019t think suffering is \u2018sent\nupon us,\u2019 as many good people assert. We pursue false ideals and they\nbring us to grief; but through that suffering we find the true ideals.\nSuffering becomes our teacher. Truth, which is good, is ever struggling\nto express itself through us; but in our ignorance we oppose and\nobstruct it, and that makes pain for us. All suffering comes from our\nobstinate opposition to good, though we are usually unconscious of it\ntill our eyes are opened. I thank you again for helping me. Since that\nday suffering has fallen away from me to a great extent. As soon as I\nbecame willing to suffer in order to get on the right road, I ceased\nto suffer. Strange law, but true. And so I argue that when we cease to\npursue happiness or think about it we shall possess it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, it has long been clear to me that we are not here to hunt\nhappiness; though I doubt not that every human soul is destined to be\nhappy; but it will be an order of happiness most unlike the common\ndream. Even here it could be found, if we sought it where the master\ntold us to look. Did he not say that the kingdom of heaven is within\nus? It is a state of consciousness. He told us how to attain it, too.\nHow simple the way! Only to love one another. This, indeed would make\nheaven for us all. That is what we are here to learn--that is the chief\nend of man, for, when we learn that, we shall know all the law--all\nthere is to learn, and shall have reached the full development which is\nthe purpose of our existence. How simple the way! We have no call to\ngo forth and reform our erring brother; to devise schemes to save his\nsoul; to build barriers to put temptation out of his way; to weave nets\nto ensnare him to our faith. We have only to love him. Thus shall we\nfulfill all the law; thus shall we do all we have to do. Neither are we\nhere to do good. Even this is not our work in life. Many well-meaning\npeople busy themselves, and bluster about doing good, from their point\nof view. Oftener than not they put their Father\u2019s house in disorder.\nWe are to _be_ good. Then the doing of good comes without effort. We\nare here but for one purpose, and that is to learn and therefore grow.\nTo learn that we are the sons and daughters of God--otherwise supreme\nwisdom, love, life, light and intelligence. The more we recognize this\ninfinite source of our being the more of it we reflect and become, the\nmore perfect our development. And how shall we do this? In the simple\nway we were told--only by loving one another. This is the purpose of\nour creation. This includes all there is to know, and to become. This\nis the perfection at which we were told to aim. This sets our feet on\nthe road to happiness.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is the body?\u201d Cartice asked.\n\n\u201cPerhaps it is the objective side of our existence on this plane--the\nself as it appears to others, but not as it really is.\u201d\n\nAfter Gabriel was gone Chrissalyn said with a yawn:\n\n\u201cCartice, you and Gabriel tire one all out bothering about the \u2018purpose\nof life,\u2019 the soul and the body and so on. What\u2019s the good of heating\nyour heads about such things? Just to slip through easy, is all I\u2019m\nasking now.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, dear; but you are a Butterfly and have a butterfly\u2019s standard.\nGabriel and I aim to be gardeners, who make it possible for butterflies\nto circle about and enjoy themselves without bad boys catching them\nand pulling their wings off. But you have grown astonishingly, since\nI first knew you, in spite of yourself. You used to find nothing\nbetter to do than kill time with a procession of admirers. Now you\nhave outgrown that. And you were dependent on your husband for your\nvery bread. Now you are able to stand on your own feet, and are a\nself-supporting, useful member of society. Don\u2019t you see, dear, that\nthe lesson every soul must learn sooner or later, here or elsewhere, is\nto be able to stand alone? Each of us, woman or man, must fulfill the\npurpose of creation, which is to grow toward perfection, and we can\u2019t\ndo that by leaning on somebody else. Woman is a human being as is man,\nand is responsible for her own destiny. The responsibility can\u2019t be put\nupon another.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XV.\n\n                      IT IS WELL WITH THE CHILD.\n\n  Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is\n    fairer;\n  Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer.\n\n  --_Richard Realf._\n\n\nMrs. Doring had a friend, a gentle, patient, heavily-burdened woman\nwho lived her difficult life with the high heroism of a daughter of\nthe gods. Though fragile as a flower she kept the wolf at bay for her\nlittle family, and nobody ever saw a cloud on her face or heard a\ncomplaint from her lips. Born and bred to the refinements of life she\nmet adversity as only the gently bred do meet it--by taking hold of\nwhatever work was at hand, without questioning whether it was what is\nmiscalled menial or not.\n\nWhen her baby girl was born she begged Cartice to name her, which she\ndid, giving her the name of the little sister who had died when she\nherself was a child--Isabel. To her mother\u2019s great delight she grew\nto resemble Mrs. Doring as though of her flesh and blood, and loved\nher in the same degree. Now she was nearly three years old, bright and\nwinsome, with never a day\u2019s illness in her record.\n\nBut a fever came, and behind that stood the last enemy, who, however\noften routed, is sure to return sometime and win the battle. This was\nthe time of his victory. In the night, when all was silent without,\nand solemn within, he came. Cartice had the baby in her arms in the\nlast precious, awesome moments. The wasted little hand reached up and\nsilently stroked her face, and the soft, dark eyes, unearthly large\nand earnest, looked at her with unutterable love. Something else, too,\nwas in their speechless depths--a message not easy to translate, but\nit brought comfort. Then, that mysterious thing, the breath, which\nconnects us with the universal life principle, ceased; the cold white\nveil dropped down, and little Isabel was dead.\n\nAfter holding the silent form close to her heart a moment, Cartice laid\nit gently on the bed, and the two mother hearts so sorely bereft stood\nsilent but tearless beside it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLater, when it was ready for its bed in the bosom of the earth, and\nagain together they looked down at its white silence, Cartice said:\n\n\u201cShe shall know no evil thought; she shall do no evil deed; she shall\ntread no evil path. It is well with the child.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, in spite of my sore heart, it is well,\u201d said the mother. \u201cI\nsurrender her not to death, but to a larger life, and shall not mourn.\nNo matter what comes, she is safe. My darling\u2019s safe--safe and dead.\nSince her father\u2019s death I have been troubled at times with fears\nfor her future. I face the inevitable--a few months more here, and\nthen--the end. For the two boys I have arranged. They will have homes\nand care, but it would have tried my courage to leave this one ewe\nlamb.\u201d\n\n\u201cI would have been a mother to Isabel had you gone first,\u201d said Mrs.\nDoring.\n\n\u201cI am sure of that; but you, too, may not tarry here long. Why should\nwe ever worry about the future? In spite of all our planning and\ntroubling all is managed by a higher hand. We have only to do the work\nof the hour, leaving what the next may bring to be met when it comes,\nand not in anticipation. The present alone concerns us. By living it\naright the future takes care of itself. It is the thought for to-morrow\nthat so often makes to-day gloomy. I distressed myself about my child\u2019s\nfuture, yet, see, all is well with her.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thank God for what I have learned of the mysterious event called\ndeath,\u201d said Mrs. Doring. \u201cYet there are people who ask what good can\ncome of knowing such things. What good? Is it nothing to know that the\nlittle image lying here is not our Isabel but her earthly investiture;\nthat she is not dead nor separated from us; that her life is to go on\nfrom grace to grace, from strength to strength? Is it nothing to know\nthat Socrates, Plato, Swedenborg, Shakespeare, Emerson, Hugo, Morse,\nFulton, all who have given the world the light of genius, have never\ndied, and that this baby is equal heir with them to a life of vaster\nopportunities and greater blessings?\u201d\n\n\u201cOthers,\u201d said Mrs. Benton, \u201cwonder what good there is in the coming\nand going of so tiny a soul, who was here but for a day as it were.\nYet her little life is as important in the divine plan as that of the\ngreatest sage. She brought the gospel of pure love with her, and we are\nthe better because of her brief visit to us--for it was but a pause on\nthe great journey.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the evening after the discarded visible part of the child had been\nput out of sight, as Mrs. Doring was returning home from her friend\u2019s\nhouse, two elderly men on the horse-car were talking of life, and their\nverdict was that they were tired of it.\n\nOne said it was an empty experience which he would not go through again\nfor any consideration. The other said he had had a good time, had got\nas much pleasure out of life as any one, but that was all over now; he\nwas getting old and full of aches and pains, and found no fun in living\nany more. The jumping off place had to be reached some day, and that\nwould put an end to it.\n\nHis friend said that was the rub--the leap in the dark. For his part\nhe was disgusted with life, but abhorred death. He saw no good in\neither one or the other, and was inclined to believe that we are all\nvictims of a tremendous cheat. If he could see anything to look forward\nto beyond a damp bed in the ground he could go on all right, but nobody\nknew anything about it--not even those who earned their bread talking\nabout it in pulpits. They said they believed certain things, but they\ndidn\u2019t know any more than other folks. He wanted solid information.\n\nThe other tossed his head to show his indifference to the subject. He\nsaid it was something he had never thought about at all in his good\ntimes, and now he guessed he wouldn\u2019t bother with it for his few\nremaining days.\n\nThus was the most important question that faces man disposed of by\none whose opinion on any topic pertaining to commercial or political\ninterests would be received with respect by his fellow townsmen\nand have weight with them. But both he and his friend had lived to\nvenerable years without ever learning what they themselves were. Of\nthat knowledge, which includes all other knowledge, they were as\nignorant as earth worms. They had acquired what is miscalled education;\nhad been factors in public affairs, and figures in social life, and yet\nnever learned that they were not bodies to go to pieces some day like\na broken machine, but spirits, with a life whose issues are spiritual\nand eternal, not material and perishable. To one, life had meant a\nchance to have a good time; to the other emptiness, because he had had\nno good time. Neither dreamed that its meaning is in the unseen, not in\nthe seen,--in what they had become, not what they possessed or enjoyed.\nThey lived in dense spiritual darkness, yet knew it not, and they were\nbut two out of millions in the same condition.\n\nHearing their pathetic though unconscious confession of ignorance,\nMrs. Doring wondered if little Isabel\u2019s short, loving, trusting life\nwas not more complete than theirs of long years full of impermanent\nand illusory importance. She wished she could tell them what she had\nlearned of life and its meaning and future, but, alas! she had already\nbeen stoned and knew the danger of letting her light shine before those\nwho had not become as little children--receptive, willing to learn.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XVI.\n\n               THE STORY OF ONE RETURNED FROM THE DEAD.\n\n \u201cIs it wonderful that I should be immortal, as every one is immortal?\n I know it is wonderful, but my eye-sight is equally wonderful, and\n how I was conceived in my mother\u2019s womb is equally wonderful.\u201d--_Walt\n Whitman._\n\n  Thought in the mind hath made us.\n    What we are\n  By thought was wrought and built.\n    If a man\u2019s mind\n  Hath evil thoughts, pain comes on him as comes\n    The wheel the ox behind.\n\n  All that we are is what we thought and willed;\n  Our thoughts shape us and frame.\n    If one endure\n  In purity of thought joy follows him\n    As his own shadow sure.--_Sir Edwin Arnold._\n\n\nMrs. Doring had read that the people of the unseen world, or other\ninvisible intelligent beings, sometimes condescended to write on slates\nunder certain conditions. As she now believed that Chrissalyn possessed\nall the psychic gifts, she bought a slate and used her most artful\neloquence to persuade her friend to experiment. The capricious creature\nconsented after fishing up objections enough to make her acquiescence\nreceived with great gratitude. This was her innocent way of making her\nservices valuable and herself important. But for love of her friend,\nand also no doubt for love of Prescott, who was the only person on the\nother side of silence that she cared to hear from, apparently, or at\nleast was not afraid of, she finally consented.\n\nNot knowing the correct manner of procedure they could do no more than\nexperiment blindly, till they learned something about it. They held\nthe slate under the table till their arms were all tired out and got\nnothing. Then they laid it on the table, and becoming interested in\ntalking, forgot all about it and their experiment, till they heard a\nsoft, rapid scratching.\n\nLooking down simultaneously, they saw an incredible thing. The tiny\npencil, no bigger than a grain of rice, was writing, though no visible\nhand guided it, and this was its message:\n\n\u201c_Each soul is its own redeemer, here, hereafter and forever._\u201d\n\nThe two spectators looked at each other in awe-struck silence. From\nwhom this came they knew not, for the one that wrote it wrote nothing\nmore. But for their familiarity with communications from the silent\nmajority they would have been sore afraid. As it was they were awed by\nthis extraordinary evidence of the nearness of unseen beings presumably\nlike themselves.\n\nTalking about it they sat there till the evening was nearly spent.\nAt last, Chrissalyn idly laid her hand on the slate, and almost\nimmediately it began to throb or vibrate curiously, like a living\nthing. Startled, she removed her hand, and instantly the throbbing\nceased. Turning the slate over they found the under side written full\nin a feminine hand of exquisite daintiness, and signed with the name of\none of our most eminent women, one who has been dead nearly a century.\n\nThe message had not been written after the manner of the previous one,\nfor there was no scratching or sound of the movement of the pencil. In\nfact, as they soon discovered, the pencil was not there at all. The\nmethod, whatever it may have been, was instantaneous, like telegraphy.\nA few seconds of vibration in the slate and lo! it was there. If\nthought could be photographed the process might be like this. It was as\nthough some one had thought the message, and the mere act of thinking\nhad made it visible on the slate.\n\n\u201cChriss, you are the most wonderful being in the world,\u201d said Cartice,\nreverently, \u201cand you don\u2019t know it. You have all the occult gifts, yet\nvalue none of them.\u201d\n\nThe Butterfly flushed with gratification at the generous praise of her\nfriend who usually praised or blamed with miserly care. Beyond the fact\nthat they made her important in Cartice\u2019s eyes she cared nothing for\nthe mysteries revealed through her. Being a butterfly, she was not\nafflicted with any particular craving for knowledge. The world and the\nthings of the world satisfied her.\n\nThis was what the slate contained:\n\n\u201cTo you, Cartice Hill Doring, I bring this message. Remember it well,\nfor I may never come again: Till the soil, and you will be prosperous.\nTill what you have. Make more of your talents. Concentrate all your\nthoughts and devote more time to your special one. If you are really\nanxious to make a success of yourself, you must use every moment. You\nnot only owe it to yourself, but to the whole world, and God, who has\nendowed you with this wonderful gift. You are a woman among a million.\nIt is certainly a wonderful gift you possess, and it is sad that you\nhave not already made more of it. So try now. Wait not for some one\nto open the way. Make your own way. You can do it better than any one\nelse. Work in order to be great; then you can rest, and it will be so\ndelightful to rest with sweet laurels.\u201d\n\nMrs. Doring read this aloud, astonished at its flattering import and\namazed that so many words, all as legible as the clearest typography,\ncould be put upon the tiny slate. The writing was a work of the most\nexquisite art.\n\n\u201cWhat does she mean by your special talent?\u201d asked Chrissalyn.\n\n\u201cA bit of my brain garden which I have scarcely cultivated at all,\nand would rather not name, for I never have been sure of my title to\nit. In my early dreams it figured conspicuously; but of late years I\nhave almost dropped it from my thoughts. The business of bread-winning\npushes many a fair dream out of its sacred niche. In spite of the\nencouraging words of this message I doubt if I shall ever till that\nsoil. I begin to feel too tired to make new departures. The torpor\nof indifference and weariness is creeping over me. The old spirit of\naction walks with a halting step, and turns its eyes longingly to the\nmeadows of ease and indolence. I think I understand how car-horses\nfeel. They know perfectly well that, whatever may happen to the rest\nof the world, for them there is only a steady, day-after-day pull till\nthe end comes. Prescott used to say I wanted to eat my cake and have it\ntoo; but he didn\u2019t know how feeble and weary I often was.\u201d\n\nOne evening when they called their unseen friends new wonders\nwere shown them--wonders which took place under laws beyond their\npenetration. The Butterfly wore a fresh white rose on her breast. When\nPrescott announced himself, his first words were of its beauty and\nfragrance.\n\n\u201cCan you see it?\u201d Cartice asked.\n\n\u201cCertainly.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd smell it?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course. Give it to me, Butterfly! Give it to me,\u201d he wrote, with\neager energy.\n\n\u201cWell, take it,\u201d said Chrissalyn, smiling at the impossible request.\n\n\u201cI am in earnest. I really want it. Hold it in your hand directly in\nfront of you, and see me take it.\u201d\n\nLaughing at what she believed to be a bit of pleasantry, she took the\nrose from her breast, and held it between her thumb and finger, saying,\nin mimicry of the old-time heroine of novels, \u201cPlease accept this token\nof my esteem.\u201d\n\nInstantly, quicker than a flash, with a suddenness indescribable, it\ndisappeared, vanished completely, in the sight of both pairs of eyes.\nWhither? Could vacant space swallow a tangible object? Impossible. Yet\nthis impossibility was accomplished.\n\nThe fact stunned them. Each looked in the face of the other, and\nclasped the other\u2019s hand to make sure they were not dreaming.\n\n\u201cI should be frightened speechless if any one else than Prescott had\ndone that,\u201d said the Butterfly, pallid and trembling.\n\n\u201cLet us ask him about it,\u201d said Cartice, who was shaken, too.\n\nWith some reluctance, Chrissalyn asked Prescott how he had taken the\nrose.\n\n\u201cBy means of what some of your scientific people call the Fourth\nDimension of Space,\u201d he replied.\n\n\u201cCan you explain it more clearly?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; I have no terms in which to make it plain to you. It is all\nnatural enough, however, and comes under a law as yet not known to your\nworld. Now wait a moment and I will bring you a flower by means of the\nsame law.\u201d\n\nSilent and expectant they sat for three or four minutes. Then,\napparently out of the air above their heads, two large fresh, red roses\nfell on the table before them. Examination proved that they were real\nand not illusory.\n\n\u201cWhere did you get them?\u201d Cartice asked.\n\n\u201cI went what you would call a long distance for them,--about two\nhundred miles; but it is nothing to me, for I know no distance outside\nof my own thought.\u201d\n\nUnsolicited, one evening Prescott volunteered to tell his two faithful\nfriends some of his experiences since passing out of their sight. He\nwrote with a rapidity and energy even greater than in life, though he\nhad ever a nervous, hasty manner of writing, which was his true form of\nexpression. In conversation he had little ability. He consumed three\nevenings in the task he had set himself, and this was his story, which\nwas addressed to Cartice:\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cThere was the accident at the elevator. It occurred in a few seconds\nof time, but I did not realize what was taking place. A thought that\nsomething was going wrong flashed through my mind, but it conveyed no\nsense of danger. I was like a spectator who sees disaster overtake\nanother, yet has no clear idea what that disaster is. From this and\nwhat I have learned here, I am inclined to the belief that victims of\naccidents which result in sudden death have no painful experiences--do\nnot even suffer from fear.\n\n\u201cAs you know, I was killed instantly--that is pushed out of life\nas you understand life, without warning. When I awoke, or regained\nconsciousness, on this side of death--which I believe was soon after\nthe accident, though I am not sure on this point--I found myself\ngroping blindly, staggering weakly in the dark and reaching about me\nwith my hands to find something that would help me to a knowledge of my\nwhereabouts.\n\n\u201cI was never distinguished for patience. Now I began to feel impatient\nand cross at finding myself in such an unaccountable situation. Then\nthe darkness got thicker, more depressing, and at last terrible, until\nmy spirit quailed before it, and the thought came to me that I was\nindeed, in a place and condition strange and fearful.\n\n\u201cThen I thought of you, Cartice, and of how devotedly I loved you.\nWith that thought came light, such radiant, phenomenal, overpowering\nlight that it dazzled me. I shuddered before its awful effulgence, and\nput my hands over my eyes that it might not blind me. My love for you\nseemed to fill all space and include all things. While enjoying it,\ndrinking it in, floating in it, I moved on, for I was walking,--or so\nit seemed--until I met my dear old friend William Bissell.\n\n\u201cThat astonished me, for I instantly remembered that he had died five\nyears before, and I had been one of those selected for the solemn honor\nof carrying his body to the grave. Was I dreaming?\n\n\u201cHe came toward me smiling. I thought I had never seen him look so\nwell, so handsome, so young or so benignant. He was ever the soul of\nkindness, not only ready but always anxious to serve others; and he had\na particular fondness for meeting friends at the railroad station when\nthey came back to the city after an absence--especially those who had\nno near kindred to welcome them.\n\n\u201c\u2018I\u2019m glad to see you, Gordon,\u2019 he said; but I thought I saw something\nin his face more than the words implied, and a foreboding of unwelcome\nnews came to me.\n\n\u201c\u2018How is this, William?\u2019 I asked. \u2018Am I dreaming? I thought I helped to\nbury you five years ago.\u2019\n\n\u201cHe smiled significantly and said, \u2018Has it not occurred to you that\nsomebody may be arranging to do the same service for you?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018What do you mean, William?\u2019 I asked, calling upon my soul to sustain\nme against the shock of the reply.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, Gordon,\u2019 he said, gently, kindness making his face shine like a\nlamp, \u2018tell me if a dead man\u2019s arm has any bones in it?\u2019\n\n\u201cInstinctively I grasped my left arm with my right hand. Lo! the hand\npassed through it. No bones were there.\n\n\u201cCan you imagine one already dead fainting from fear? The sensation\nI experienced was more startling, more fearful than anything I had\nconceived of before. I sank down, down into immeasurable depths.\n\n\u201cA feeling of shame at my cowardice took possession of me. Why was\nI afraid? I had died, to be sure; my condition was changed; but the\nexperience was something millions and millions of other souls had\nundergone. Gentle, timid, delicate women had trodden that solemn path\nbefore me. Little children, too, had traveled it. Why should I, a man,\nvain of my strength and courage, be affrighted? A vast compassion\nfor all humankind in this trying moment welled up in my heart, and\ninstantly I was lifted into light, and beheld about me loving and\nfamiliar faces, beautiful vistas, and heard melodious sounds. The\nloving thought I held had borne me upward; but I did not then know it.\n\n\u201cMany times I sank into a dark, bottomless void, and as often by some\nmysterious power rose into ineffable light. I encountered massive walls\nfrom time to time, before which my feet were stayed. Impassable and\nimpregnable, they seemed to bar my way, I knew not why. Eventually\nI learned that the sinking and the rising, and the barriers I met,\nwere not external experiences, but all took place within my own\nconsciousness, and were but the picturing or appearances of my inner\ncondition. They were my own thoughts externalized, for _thought_ is the\nonly _thing_ in the _Universe_. We think, therefore we are. Existence\nis thought. Man is thought made objective. Thought is the creative\nprinciple: it is creation.\n\n\u201c\u2018As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he,\u2019 describes life both here\nand in the visible form, if you but understand its true significance.\nHere every sensation is intensified a thousand times. I thrill with\njoy and the universe vibrates in harmonious response. I suffer, and\nit trembles in reciprocal anguish. And this is true of every soul in\nwhatever part of the universe it may dwell; but here our capacity\nto feel is keener and greater than with you, and here we learn to\nunderstand. Every sensation is intensified, because we enter into\ncloser relations with the One Life, the One Spirit that fills all\nspace. Everything is within our consciousness, and outside of that\nthere is nothing. Within us is all that ever was or shall be.\n\n\u201cFor a time I was often wretched. The interests of earth attracted me,\nI thought of them wistfully, and wished I were in my old place doing\nthe work in which I had found something akin to pleasure. The wish held\nme there, and I was miserable, because the old methods of action were\nlost to me. Often when you sat at your desk in the _Register_ office I\nwas near, suffering keen torment, because I could not make my presence\nknown. It took me a long time to see that we were not really separated.\nIt was only the veil of your ignorance that shut me away from you. I\nwas near you, but you did not know it, that was all. The veil that\nhides our world from yours is ignorance--a veil it is possible to lift.\n\n\u201cStill, I suffered until I found a means of enlightening you. I saw the\npeculiar power the Butterfly possesses, and endeavored to arouse in her\na wish to investigate which would enable me to bridge the gulf between\nus--a gulf that existed only in your thought.\n\n\u201cI caused her to see me in what she believed a dream, and I held a\nplanchette that she might try to operate with it. To my unbounded\ndelight I was successful. I assure you that, although you were grateful\nfor the knowledge the little tripod brought you, I was a thousand\ntimes more so, since to me it meant deliverance from darkness and\nmisery.\n\n\u201cI could not rise into higher conditions--conditions being\ninternal--until I had established communication with you. The moment\nyou recognized me and believed in me, darkness and discontent began to\nfall away from me. You made heaven for me on earth, inasmuch as I loved\nyou, and that love has made heaven for me here--both heaven and hell\nbeing states of consciousness, though none the less real for all that.\n\n\u201cMy burden was lifted, when you fully understood that I still lived.\nNot till then was I willing to accept my changed condition and seek\nknowledge in new paths.\n\n\u201cHow delightful it was to discover that I had power within myself to\ncreate conditions! Thoughts of love enveloped me in light, a light that\nhad in it all beauty and all harmony. The character of my love for you\nchanged. Desire for possession went out of it, and the wish to benefit\nand help you in every way, without regard to myself, took its place. I\nthen learned that the more unselfish and universal our love, the deeper\nand fuller and sweeter our own being becomes. Love is the supreme\npower. Love is life. Love is light. Love is all there is, for love is\nGod.\n\n\u201cThis is a scientific truth and not merely a figure and phrase of\nreligious philosophy.\n\n\u201cGod is spirit and spirit is substance, the only substance in the\nuniverse. Men of science tell you that light is a mode of motion, and\nthey speak truly, for it is the physical expression of pure spirit\nwhich is pure love. Spirit, which includes all worlds and all being is\nin perpetual motion; all that you see is but its different forms of\nmanifestation.\n\n\u201cYour sun is not your source of light; it is but a reflector or\ntransmitter of the one supreme light to the worlds of its system.\n\n\u201cThe more we love the more of God do we become and express. Oh! if\nI could but tell you the joy that love brings. It can overcome all\nthings. Where it dwells no evil can come; and it enters wherever\nthe door is left open to receive it. It is everywhere, but, if your\nconsciousness is unaware of it, for you it has no existence. Only\nrecognize it and it is yours.\n\n\u201cI passed my life in combat. I attacked evil, fought it ruthlessly,\nand believed I was doing good. Yet I was only making evil important.\nYou would laugh at the teacher who fought children in order to make\nthem wise, wouldn\u2019t you? Evil is only ignorance--otherwise spiritual\ndarkness, and men and women are but children in knowledge. There is\nbut one way to eradicate evil or ignorance, and that is to make more\nlight. Open the understanding and let in the light. The darkness will\nflee before it. You remember Victor Hugo said: \u2018Pay schoolmasters and\nnot soldiers.\u2019 I see now that the only way to make men better is to\nawaken the God or good in them; to put higher ideals before them, and\nnot find fault with them because they don\u2019t know all there is to know.\n\n\u201cUntil I met you I lived a loveless life, therefore a pessimistic one.\nMy sympathy with humankind had a narrow limit. A wrong aroused my wrath\nagainst the perpetrator of it, when it should have awakened my pity for\nthe dark condition of his mind.\n\n\u201cI was conceited, intolerant, impatient, belligerent and often cruel. I\nwent about with a lash in my hand, ready to administer upon all who did\nnot live up to my standard. Now I see the simpler way of which we were\nlong since told. It is to love our wayward brothers. When men learn\nthat an injury done another injures themselves far more than the other,\nthey will cease to be unkind.\n\n\u201cAs a matter of course I could not give up my old ways of thinking at\nonce. I still found myself quick to anger and ready to hate at the\nknowledge of offence or injury. These feelings instantly plunged me\ninto darkness and the companionship of demons hideous to behold.\n\n\u201cIt is so in your world also. Rage and hate darken your mind, and\nbring into it hideous demons of thought; but love fills you with light\nand beauty. Though your conception of love be crude and narrow, still\nthe germ of divinity is in it, and it will brighten your way as far as\nits light extends. If you are faithful to truth as you see it, broader\nconceptions will come to you.\n\n\u201cI am not capable of instructing you on life here, only so far as it\nhas revealed itself to me. Another may have different experiences and\nsee a different outlook. Each soul is bounded by its own limitations,\nwhich expand as it advances. I am but a student, at the feet of wiser\nmasters; but I must give you what I see, not what they see.\n\n\u201cI believe the universe is electric; that spirit operates through\nall nature by means of what you call electricity, in its different\nmanifestations. The infinite mind, or what is called God, is the\nhighest and most etherealized substance, including all else. It\npossesses the attributes of inherent motion and living power, and it\nhas a centre like a great central sun, whose rays extend everywhere\nthrough a system of transmitters. We live and move and have our being\nin it, just as all physical life owes its existence to the sun of its\nsystem. Electricity is the servant of this central and all-inclusive\nmind, whose every thought is transmitted through creation by means of\nelectrical and etheric vibration. Every thought of yours creates a\nflash of electricity in your brain, which becomes a transmitter, for\nthought is electric. Do not forget, however, that I give this only as\nwhat appears to me.\n\n\u201cLife is an endless chain. To me now the mere fact of living after\ndeath seems a very small thing--but one little link in the endless\nchain. Dazzling heights rise before us as the soul goes on up the\nsteps of knowledge, where inexhaustible joys are laid up for us.\nNothing counts but knowledge--knowledge of the law. Now I understand\nthat eternal life is to know God. It takes eternal life to know him.\n\n\u201cWhen you act from the outlook of love, you will never go wrong; for\ntruth is born of love.\n\n\u201cWeave well the fabric of your thought, for everything is made from it.\nThe law of causation is inflexible. What you give you will get. Your\nthoughts will come back to you, bringing whatever freight of evil or\ngood with which you sent them forth. Every time you think of a person\nyou affect him for good or ill.\n\n\u201cIf you sin, you will be the servant of sin. If you love good, you will\nbe the instrument of good.\n\n\u201c\u2018God is spirit, and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit\nand in truth.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe whole law is there. If you live the life of the spirit, you\nworship God because you express truth. Each man on earth, as to his\nreal self, is as true a spirit as he ever shall be. Only in most cases\nhe is ignorant of that tremendous fact. Understand this and live it,\nand you worship God in spirit and in truth.\n\n\u201cHere imagination is reality. It is also the creative realm in your\nworld. I think and will, and my thought takes form. I think of one I\nlove, and instantly I am with that one, no matter in how remote a part\nof the universe he or she may be.\n\n\u201cI say remote, because you think of distance as real. To the soul it\ndoes not exist and never has existed. It is but the continuity of the\nmind--a mode of thought. I speak of minutes, yet for us there is no\ntime. That too is but a mode of thought. I must, however, use terms\ncomprehensible to you.\n\n\u201cDo I have the same form as in life? Yes.\n\n\u201cDo I wear clothes? I am clothed by my own thought, and so are you, but\nin a cruder way and by a slower process.\n\n\u201cHave I sight? Yes, but it is not the same as physical sight. That was\nfor the objective life; this is for all that is related to my inner or\ntrue being and the true being of others.\n\n\u201cHave I the other senses as in the natural life? Yes; in a fulness and\nperfection undreamed of before. I have them and others unknown to you\nall blended in one vast consciousness which puts me in touch with all\nthat relates to me in a manner impossible to describe.\n\n\u201cThe senses are but avenues through which your spirit takes cognizance\nof its environment. Here the spirit learns that it is its own\nenvironment.\n\n\u201cIs communion between this world and yours beneficial to either one?\n(Remember there is but one world. The division is all in your thought.)\nIs not association with high-minded, well-instructed persons always\nbeneficial to you; and association with the evil-minded and untaught\nalways hurtful?\n\n\u201cHow are human beings to know they are deathless; if the fact be\nnot proved to them by ways within their comprehension? Can there be\nanything but good in learning the law of your own being, by whatever\nmeans are open to you? Not only is it beneficial, but it is the most\nimportant branch of knowledge you can study.\n\n\u201cEven spirit phenomena of the most rudimentary order are useful and\nnecessary to the awakening of minds incapable of understanding higher\nmethods of instruction. There is a primer stage in all learning.\n\n\u201cThe same law of attraction governs intercourse between us and you that\nreigns throughout nature. Like attracts like. You call to you the same\norder of mind from here that you attract there from among the living.\n(In reality there is neither a here nor a there, save in your mind.\nAll is the same.) Your habitual quality of thought will attract its\nlike. You will get what you give. Thus it happens that the foolish get\nfoolish messages, and the earnest and intelligent generally receive\nsensible and instructive ones.\n\n\u201cAs I divine the purposes of higher orders of beings here, they care\nrelatively little for phenomena, and often lament much connected with\nphenomena; but they do care a great deal for whatever agency can reach\nhuman minds and cause them to think, even for ever so few minutes, of\nwhat is gentle, humane, kind, considerate, unselfish and affectional.\nThese are the doors by which higher, gentler spirits reach human\nunderstandings, and by these means they exert a power far greater than\nis generally suspected.\n\n\u201cFor the production of ordinary phenomena a high grade of intelligence\nis not necessary. You do not need a professor to teach a child its\nalphabet. The better developed spirits find more subtle ways of\nimparting knowledge, and select more advanced minds to receive it\nthan those that are satisfied with rudimentary phenomena. But that is\nnecessary to begin with.\n\n\u201cHere as on earth--remember I use a term implying locality for your\nbetter understanding, though the spirit knows no locality--all who\nenjoy a larger light than the multitude are anxious to share it with\nthose less favored. By helping others into it they receive more of it\nthemselves. This is a law. Selfish, indeed, would be the soul who had\na faith that supported him through every trial, and yet did not want\nothers to have it. The heart\u2019s desire of every prophet, genius and\nsavior, is to make others see as he sees that which illumines his own\nsoul. For this cause the noblest and best have often perished--that is,\ngiven up their physical life--to perish in reality being impossible.\nTherefore, communion between spirits still in the body and those out\nof it is one of the most important means of education known--the chief\noccupation of some who are here.\n\n\u201cToying with phenomena for the sole purpose of gratifying\ncuriosity--mere wonder-mongering--is always to be deprecated.\n\n\u201cOften, as in my case, the opportunity of communicating with\nfriends left behind sets a spirit free from his own unhappy\nthought-limitations. It lifts a burden from him. My desire to prove to\nyou that I was not dead held me in bondage until I bridged the gulf.\nIntense love for one is always a kind of bondage. The perfect love we\nshall know, when the truth has freed us, is all-embracing, universal,\nlike unto the love of God--it is the love of God.\n\n\u201cWhen I read these words of Condillac I laughed at them: \u2018Though we\nshould soar into the heavens, though we should sink into the abyss, we\nnever go out of ourselves; it is always our thought that we perceive.\u2019\n\n\u201cNow I can affirm their truth. We can never run away from ourselves.\nWe take our own world with us wherever we go, for it is made of our\nthought--\u2018it is always our own thought that we perceive.\u2019 We are our\nown thought--and the smallest insect or strongest and fiercest beast or\ngreatest genius is no less and no more.\n\n\u201cIn the life of the world I never knew happiness. Behind a cynical\nand reserved exterior I masked a restless, suffering spirit. Creation\nappeared a grim tragedy. This was because my inner eyes were closed,\nand I took the distorted shadow for the reality. I was looking at a\nfantastic mirror and saw only its exaggerated reflections. I ridiculed\nthe idea of any one\u2019s being happy in such a world. Now I know that man\nis destined to be happy, but his happiness is of the spirit, and can\nonly come with spiritual development, when he knows that he is spirit,\nlives the life of the spirit, and so becomes free from the bonds of\nignorance. This is what is meant by the truth making us free. Ignorance\nis the only evil there is--mere blindness to the light, though the\nlight is always shining. When you know the truth, you become the truth,\nand are out of the darkness of ignorance, therefore free. This is, I am\ntold, the ultimate destiny of the whole human race.\n\n\u201cRemember that God never punishes any one. He only teaches. This,\nthe children of the world have to learn. They, too, must eliminate\npunishment from their methods of dealing with the wrongdoers, otherwise\nthe ignorant.\n\n\u201cA wise friend told me to cease my self-questioning and striving,\nand let knowledge find me. He said we have only to _let_ good\ncome to us and it will fill us. To do this we must make ourselves\nreceptive--negative--and the spirit, the one spirit, which includes all\nwisdom, all love, all life, being positive, will flow into us. He said\nour continual striving and struggling made us positive, and therefore\nunreceptive. This enabled me to see a new meaning in the question,\n\u2018Who, by searching can find out God?\u2019\n\n\u201cThe law is to be still--ready to receive--and let him enter.\n\n\u201cWhen I did this I emerged from suffering and darkness, and for the\nfirst time in the memory of my conscious existence felt my spirit at\nrest.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XVII.\n\n                        UPROOTING A HUMAN TREE.\n\n  A man said unto his angel:\n    \u201cMy spirits are fallen through,\n  And I cannot carry this battle:\n    O Brother, what shall I do?\u201d\n\n         *       *       *       *       *\n\n  Then said to the man his angel:\n    \u201cThou wavering, foolish soul,\n  Back to the ranks! What matter\n    To win or lose the whole.\u201d\n\n  --_Louise Imogen Guiney._\n\n\nThe Joys, otherwise the Hanleys, fell into financial trouble. Burton\nHanley was forced to make an assignment for the benefit of his\ncreditors. He had enough to pay every dollar he owed, and he turned it\nall over with an out-of-date honesty that scandalized the community.\n\nThe envious found a certain sweetness in this news. Nodding their heads\nknowingly, they said they guessed the Joys were about done with Joy.\nBut this did not seem to be the case. On the evening following the\nassignment they were at an entertainment in the house of a friend and\nwere the blithest guests, as they generally were.\n\nThe knowing ones said this light-heartedness was put on--a mere bluff\nto make others think they did not value money. As a matter of fact it\nwas not. They had simply forgotten all about their financial troubles\nin the engrossing pleasures of the hour. This enviable faculty for\nenjoying the present moment, unclouded by past or future shadows was\nlargely responsible for their joyous lives. For them there was only the\nnow. They never reasoned or philosophized about it, but just lived that\nway by nature.\n\n\u201cWait till they have a hand-to-hand fight with Poverty,\u201d said the\nknowing ones, who are often the cruel ones. \u201cWait till he writes his\nname on their clothes, their faces and their thoughts. Wait till he\nwalks with them, sits with them, eats with them and never leaves them\nfor an instant! Wait!\u201d They said this in a way that made their hearers\nunderstand the waiting would not require patience.\n\nKinder ones sighed and said the Joys, poor souls, laughed at poverty,\nbecause they didn\u2019t know its horrors. But they were destined to better\nacquaintance with the dreaded spectre. Meantime they went their way\nrejoicing that affairs were no worse.\n\nLilla was so full of what she had learned through Chrissalyn of the\ndeathlessness of herself and fellow beings, that she bubbled over\nlike a kettle filled to the brim and boiling. What was loss of money\nand a contest with poverty to one who knew that Death was dead? This\nknowledge was of a character too fermentative to remain bottled up\nwithin her. She went around talking of it, unmindful of the injunction\nnot to cast pearls before swine. An enthusiast by nature, and endowed\nwith power to carry conviction to an extraordinary degree, it is\nstrange she did not succeed in the propaganda; but she did not. On\nthe contrary the swine turned upon her and she was rended, like other\nprophets who have been guilty of similar indiscretion.\n\nTo each other some of the swine said: \u201cPoor Lilla Joy. Burton\u2019s failure\nhas upset her after all. Talks about nothing but souls. Thinks she has\nhad proof of dead folks being alive. It\u2019s too bad.\u201d\n\nBut Lilla refused to be cast down. After a time she gave up the\nhopeless work of letting her light shine too far, it is true, but she\nkept her strangely happy face and joyous ways--kept them through many\na dark day, on many a stony road--kept them to the end. She met all\nthings, troublous or pleasant, as Socrates said he wished to meet the\ngods--with a bright face.\n\nThis never-changing brightness made an impression on everybody who\nbeheld it. One might feebly describe it by saying that her soul seemed\ntoo large and too happy for its mortal measure, and was always running\nover.\n\nPerhaps the office boy of the _Register_ hit it most felicitously, when\nhe thus described her to Cartice, who had been out, when she called\none day: \u201cIt was that lady who comes often and always looks as if she\nhad just heard good news.\u201d Mrs. Doring recognized the word photograph\nof Lilla Joy at once.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are times in the lives of all when new departures are imminent,\nwhen a change is impending and obligatory, yet is slow to define\nitself. There is the feeling that other paths must be entered, but to\nthe outer eye they are unblazed.\n\nSuch a time had come to Cartice Doring. She had long felt its approach,\nbut knew not the end to which it pointed. Something more than impulse\nstirred within her. The Spirit of Destiny itself spoke the inexorable\ncommand to move on.\n\nWhither? \u201cMove on.\u201d This was the only answer, for Destiny has a way of\nmaking us choose our roads, though for the most part the various whips\nwithin and without which play upon us seem to make the matter of choice\nlargely a thing of name only. We do what we can rather than what we\nwish. This should give us a grain of comfort on dark days by relieving\nus of regrets, and settling us in the conviction that we are no more\nand no less than that which we must be. Even though our own nature be\nthe compelling and directing force, we are none the less servants to\nits dicta. Call that which rules us by whatever name we choose, how\nsupreme is the sway!\n\nLooking over the situation Mrs. Doring summed up the reasons for making\na change. First, she was not doing her best; she was letting down a\nlittle all the time, and that clearly was degeneration. Pleasure in\nher work had gone and perfunctory performance taken its place. She was\nweary of the miserable business of writing to please the many-headed\nmultitude, which the late Dr. Charles Mackay was fond of describing as\n\u201cfool of a public; pig of a public,\u201d while her honest convictions had\nto be kept locked up in her soul and labeled, \u201cDangerous,\u201d like a can\nof dynamite.\n\nIn Prescott\u2019s day she was free to say what she thought ought to be\nsaid. Now, she was frequently brought to book for utterances far too\nbold, in the opinion of the proprietors of the paper, who insisted on\na close connection between the counting room and editorial desk. As\na result of constantly trimming to suit the fitful breezes of public\ntaste, the _Register_ was losing ground. Strange law that governs the\nminds of men! Kowtow to them and they despise and neglect you. Defy\nthem and they respect and court you.\n\nNo; she must not stay with the _Register_. Internal wranglings were\nshaking it. An eruption might take place any day, changing the whole\nface of its affairs.\n\nFor her salvation, intellectual and physical, she must go. Yet habit,\nfriendship and a horrible dread of facing new difficulties put up a\nplea for her to stay. No; she must go, no matter what she had to meet,\nloneliness, humiliation, disappointment, defeat, want, death itself.\nMUST. Something told her that in a way that brooked no contradiction.\n\nBut she was so tired--more tired than any one dreamed, in spite of her\nalmost jaunty cheerfulness.\n\nAnd what had she as financial armor for the new battle about to begin?\nGrimly she smiled as she cast her mind\u2019s eye in that direction. A\nfew dollars only. \u201cVerily industry and talent combined are richly\nrewarded,\u201d she said. Yet she had made reputation; she was considered\nsuccessful. However, many a slave to the pen knows that reputation and\nmoney do not always go hand in hand. Besides this imposing capital she\nhad her experience and the knowledge of her own powers which it had\nbrought. Valuable capital, to be sure. Yet experience brings us another\ngift which helps to weaken us by counteracting our faith in ourselves,\nand that is a knowledge of the difficulties, a bold outlining of the\ngreatness of the task.\n\nWhat else had she wherewith to gird herself for that trip into the\nunexplored, so sure to involve risks of many kinds?\n\nIn the teeth of a wish to find a quiet place and there lie down,\nclosing her eyes to the world forever,--in the face of a weariness\nuntellable, she knew that within the hidden depths of herself, under\nall the scars, disappointments and fatigues was courage.\n\nWhat other prop had she? A strong, an invincible one--the knowledge\nthat eternal being and her being were one and the same, and that she\nwas never alone or dependent on herself, however much this seemed to be\nthe case; that living, loving souls, angels, if you choose, had charge\nconcerning her and that the everlasting arms of universal love were\never about her.\n\nShe would go to New York, a field of many gleaners, truly, but big,\nand therefore of promise. The needle of her destiny pointed in that\ndirection. There was its magnet. With the decision came peace.\n\nYet day after day she lingered, telling no one of her decision, and\nfeeling that she belonged neither to the place she was in nor to that\nfor which she was bound--a curious, detached sort of existence such as\nhad ever been hers, when she must tear herself from an accustomed place\nand seek an unaccustomed one. The work of uprooting herself involved\npains and groans like those of a great tree, when torn up by a storm.\n\nIn love of locality Cartice was a tree, and frequently said so. Her\npleasure would have been to live always in one place, taking deeper\nroot every day, and loving the soil that sustained her. Doubtless\nbecause this was her nature, fate decreed that she should have no\nchance to take deep root anywhere, for her own good.\n\nThose days of inward groaning and tree-like clinging to a spot of which\nshe had long been weary, reminded her of other days, now years in the\npast, when she had uprooted herself from the only peaceful bit of life\nshe had known, to go forth and marry Louis Doring and become sister to\nmisery.\n\nThen she had swayed and clung and groaned day after day, only to yield\nat last to the force that ruled her destiny, and she knew she must do\nthe same now.\n\nA time came, however, when the human tree lay prone, its uprooting an\naccomplished fact. Its roots, bared to the sun and wind, trembled a\nlittle, but the groaning was over.\n\nNow there was nothing to do but tell Chrissalyn and go.\n\nThe Butterfly paled as she heard the decision.\n\n\u201cI have known this for a long time,\u201d she said, \u201clong before you knew\nit yourself, but I would not speak of it, lest you might be guided by\nwhat I said. I learned it by the inside way that things are told me so\noften. It\u2019s hard for me to have you go; but I understand, and believe\nit\u2019s for the best. Does any one else know?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot yet. I don\u2019t tell others, even good friends, because they will\nask questions about my plans and dig my very heart out of my body to\nfind out all about what I am going to do. In the first place I don\u2019t\nknow. In the second I should not care to tell if I did. Telling spoils\neverything for me. Why do people make inquisitions of themselves and\ntorture others merely to gratify an idle curiosity?\u201d\n\n\u201cCartice\u201d--Chrissalyn spoke a little cautiously--\u201cin the face of what\nyou have been saying, and knowing that your temper is not seraphic, I\nwill say I wish I knew for sure that you would have something to hold\non to, when you get to New York.\u201d\n\n\u201cChriss, dear, I _must_ find something, that\u2019s all there is to it.\nMUST. That word is a magnet drawing whatever it demands. Whenever we\nMUST have something, we get it.\u201d\n\nContact with the industrial problem had let a few practical ideas into\nthe Butterfly\u2019s once airy head. Therefore she was concerned about the\nfinancial future of her friend. Still, she did not comprehend the\nsituation in its tragic entirety. A prop of some kind had ever been\nnear for her to lean on in dire extremity. Fate provides props for\nthose who are not strong enough to stand alone; but the great souls are\nplaced where there is nothing to lean against, that they may both keep\nand show their strength. They suffer; their hearts often bleed; but\nthey stand.\n\nThen, too, Chrissalyn looked upon her friend as a person of such\nincomparable ability, that she could overcome any obstacle, however\nformidable. \u201cHow I shall miss you, Cartice,\u201d she said, huskily. \u201cHow\nlonely and bereft I shall be.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have your admirers, your moths.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy moths? Yes, my miserable moths,\u201d said Chrissalyn, contemptuously.\n\u201cThey are about as much comfort to me, as so many of the genuine\ninsects. I am a proof of evolution. I have evolved too far to find\nthem interesting. But where are the men? Do they not exist outside of\nnovels any more? For a long time I cherished dreams of meeting one whom\nI could love without being ashamed of myself, but I am giving them up.\nSometimes, where I hear of friends marrying, it all sounds so fine that\nI am quite envious until I see their husbands, and then I am better\ncontented.\u201d\n\nFor Cartice the pain of parting from her friend was intensified by the\nknowledge that it meant loss of opportunity to talk with her beloved\nunseen people. The Butterfly was a telephone to the other world whose\nlike might never be met again.\n\nThey spent the last evening together. Their invisible friends\nunderstood what was determined upon, without any telling. Prescott was\nasked if he had any suggestions to make in regard to Cartice\u2019s plans.\n\n\u201cIt is not for us to direct you,\u201d he said. \u201cYou must steer your own\nbark. That is the business of life. The field is wide, and you have\nyour place therein and will find it. Don\u2019t be discouraged. We shall be\noften with you, and shall keep an eye on you.\u201d\n\nThe evening was one long to be remembered by the two who were so soon\nto be separated, tinged as it was with the melancholy that colors all\nlast occasions.\n\nThe final glimpse Cartice had of the place that had been to her a\ncity of sorrow as well as of light, showed her the Butterfly waving a\nloving and tearful adieu. Dear Butterfly! Was there ever so charming\na combination of vanity, love of pleasure, earthly prettiness and\ngoddess-like ability to do wondrous things?\n\nCartice settled herself for her journey, feeling somewhat as a soul\nmight who had just issued from one very difficult and wretched\nincarnation and knew that in a few hours it must begin another, which\nin all probability would prove more difficult and more wretched.\n\nIt takes courage to face the mouths of cannon; yet that, though\nhorrible, lasts not long. But the woman who, alone and unknown, goes\ninto the mixed and frightful mass of humankind represented by a great\ncity, to seek a chance to earn honest bread, displays a courage besides\nwhich that of the bravest soldier must lose a little of its luster.\nAnd any one who makes her hard road harder, builds for himself a wall\nwhich will not be easy to scale; he is but lengthening the period of\nhis own spiritual evolution.\n\nThe train rolled on, its wheels beating a steady rhythm like the feet\nof flying horses, their vibrations striking the sick heart of the weary\nwoman inside, and making it quake with terror.\n\nShe had kept a smiling face before the Butterfly clear to the last; but\nnow that she was alone--at least unknown to her fellow travelers, hence\nsecure from intrusion, her courage evaporated, and she curled up on her\nsofa, a mere lump of suffering.\n\nAs the telegraph posts flew by she pictured herself taken out, tied to\none and shot dead by balls from many rifles, and earnestly wished she\ncould exchange her present situation for such brief pain.\n\nIs this world hell? The query had come to her before, and now it\nchallenged her boldly. Whose happiness or safety was secure for the\nmorrow?\n\nOf what was ahead of her she scarcely dared to think. Glimpses of its\ngrim possibilities flashed across her mind, making her mobile face\nset and stern. A frightened light came into her eyes and a strange\nexpression fluttered around her mouth. In imagination she was seeing\nthe two rivers that flow on either side of New York, and was thinking\nof what they had done and were yet to do for those who found the burden\nof life greater than they could bear.\n\nIn that moment she felt a cool, soft breeze about her, and with it\ncame the thought that she could never seek solace there--she who knew\nthat life reached out an unbroken line, beyond the sight and even the\ndreams of men. Not for her ran rivers, whose flowing waters lapped and\nswirled and wooed world-weary hearts. Did she believe that silence,\nnothingness, insensate dust alone were at the end of our journey here,\nthere; blessed be the rivers! But she knew--knew beyond doubt that no\nriver can extinguish the spark of divinity we call consciousness.\n\nAfter all, why should she fear? No one stands absolutely alone. There\nis no separateness, no differentiation. Back of each, eternal Being\nmirrors itself forever; and that which we see is as nothing compared\nto that which we see not. The cloud of witnesses more than witnesses.\nInfluences invisible, but powerful, are ever working for us. Threads\nhidden from bodily eyes connect us with all life beheld and unbeheld.\n\nHer own people were in touch with her, loved and inspired her, no\nmatter in what part of the universe they dwelt, and nothing could\ndivide her from them.\n\nRemembering this, the shadow of fear passed, and she prepared to meet\nher destiny with courage.\n\nNew knowledge had brought new responsibility. Life was not to be\nhaggled through as a hateful bargain; it must be lived in the highest\nsense; its lessons faithfully learned and character constructed by the\nmaster architect, experience. One must do one\u2019s best, in the teeth of\nthe storm, in the front of the battle. We must always be able to look\nour souls in the face without shame.\n\nSuppose her efforts and even her life ended in failure at last! What\nmatter? To succeed in the world\u2019s opinion is often to fail in the\nexacting eye of conscience. Perhaps the only permanent success is\nfailure. The joy, the glory and the reward are in the doing, not in the\nresult. The fateful question for all of us will be, not, \u201cHast thou\nwon?\u201d but \u201cHast thou striven?\u201d\n\nThe things we call pain and pleasure she knew to be illusions,\nmere thought pictures painted on the canvas of our consciousness,\nby ignorance--ignorance of our true being and the true purpose of\nexistence.\n\nSo she said, \u201cNo matter what comes, since I know that out of all the\npain and humiliation the world can put upon me, out of the shadow of\ndeath, I shall rise and pass on to my eternal unfolding.\n\n\u201cFor me there is no want. Have I not bread to eat that thousands of\nothers as yet have not, because they will not receive it?\n\n\u201cFor me and for the whole human race there is but one thing needful,\nand that is the knowledge that eternal being is within, around, about\nus and we are it.\u201d\n\nSpiritualism? The ignorant will say with a sneer. Yes, in the highest,\nbroadest and deepest sense. It sustained this lonely woman on her\njourney to a great city to work out her life\u2019s problem, and after she\nwas there it gave her patience and confidence. It made it impossible\nfor her to seek the river, and enabled her to wear a cheerful face and\ncarry a hopeful heart, while her little store of money dribbled down to\na few lonesome dollars.\n\nWithout this rock of faith those long, lonely days of seeking and\nwaiting would have been unbearable. Sometimes she sat in the public\nsquares looking compassionately upon the pitiful people about her. The\nhomeless, the hopeless, the hungry, the despairing, the weary, the\nailing, the suffering, the broken-hearted were there, some in rags and\nsome in fine garments. Within each one ached and ate the canker of a\nwretchedness they tried to hide from happier souls who passed them by.\n\nCartice read their misery by the light of past suffering, and yearned\nto say to them: \u201cAwake! You are in a dark dream. The conditions that\ntrouble you are unreal--mere illusions, and touch not your true life at\nall. You are gods every one, but unaware of your divinity. One day the\ndream shall pass and you shall know this.\u201d\n\nBut the etiquette of civilization forbade it. We see our fellow beings\nsuffer and perish from some wound in the soul, yet approach them not.\nAll she could do was to send out to them, through the silent waves of\nthought, messages of hope and good cheer.\n\nIn those days of striving and waiting and studying the swarming life\nabout her Mrs. Doring turned over the economic problem in her mind many\ntimes. Curious industrial system, that condemns idleness and yet makes\nthe search for employment bitter and hard!\n\nThe two arts which held her chance were hedged about in such a way that\nthe most she could do was to shoot an arrow from afar and trust that\nit might stick. Nor was she unaware that many other arrows were flying\nfrom other archers, each one diminishing the chances of the rest.\n\n\n\n\n                            CHAPTER XVIII.\n\n                    BOHEMIA\u2019S HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS.\n\n  \u201cWork thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carve\n  The thing thou lovest, though the body starve.\n  Who works for glory misses oft the goal;\n  Who works for money coins his very soul.\n  Work for the work\u2019s sake, then, and it may be\n  That these things shall be added unto thee.\u201d\n\n  --_Kenyon Cox._\n\n\nOne day a miracle happened,--at least Cartice Doring considered it a\nmiracle. She was swinging to a strap in one of the always dirty and\nfrequently crowded cars of the elevated railroad--when, as the train\nwent ricketing round a curve she was flung against a man behind her\nwith such force that both well-nigh fell to the floor.\n\nBefore she could apologize, a familiar voice said:\n\n\u201cMrs. Doring! I\u2019m delighted to have been knocked down, since it proves\nto be the means of meeting you.\u201d\n\nHe was a newspaper man whose occasional visits to the _Register_ she\nhad greatly enjoyed; and his was the first familiar face that she had\nencountered since she had turned her back on former scenes.\n\n\u201cWhy, Mr. Farnsworth, I\u2019m glad enough to cry,\u201d she blurted out, and\ncame near proving the truth of her assertion.\n\nWhen he learned that she had come to New York to seek her fortune, he\nsaid:\n\n\u201cI can put a spoke in your wheel, for I came here with that intention\nmyself, and have my tent permanently pitched. A pen and pencil like\nyours need never be idle. Come to our publishing house to-morrow at two\no\u2019clock--here\u2019s a card--and we will lay the corner-stone of your future\ngreatness.\u201d\n\nCartice was wakeful far into the night nursing her gratitude, and\nthinking over the miracle. Farnsworth had been a lifelong friend to\nPrescott. Perhaps Prescott brought about their meeting, and put it into\nFarnsworth\u2019s head to employ her. Who knows what the people we call\ndead may not be able to do? Perhaps they give us many of our thoughts,\npurposes and plans. Does not every event in our lives, however trivial\nand insignificant, hang upon thousands of preceding events, great and\nsmall?\n\nAnd when it comes to a question of what a soul can or cannot do,\nembodied or disembodied, who can answer?\n\nWhat is the soul of man? Before assigning it limitations it were well\nto know its composition. It is assumed to be the \u201cimmortal unit which\nrepresents personality\u201d; but here and there have been men and women who\ndemonstrated a marvelous complexity of ego, their visible body seeming\na mere tenement for a variety of distinct personalities, all linked\ntogether by some mysterious chain of kinship, though not all resembling\neach other, and not always dwelling in harmony.\n\nStevenson makes Dr. Jekyll say, \u201cI hazard a guess that man will be\nultimately known for a mere polity of multifarious, incongruous and\nindependent denizens.\u201d\n\nAre we not all conscious of a Mr. Hyde within us who breaks out at\ntimes and sadly stains the good record of Dr. Jekyll? May we not be\nharboring many Jekylls and Hydes, each differing in degrees of goodness\nand badness?\n\nThinking on this, Cartice remembered the answer of the nameless wise\none to the question, \u201cWhat is the soul?\u201d--an answer that startled her,\nfor it opened a vista so vast, since it meant that the soul is God, or\nabsolute being revealing himself or itself.\n\nThis being granted, its personalities are beyond computation. Its\nJekylls and Hydes and its millions which are neither Jekylls nor Hydes\nare past number.\n\nIn a sea of wonder like this is it worth while to ponder the causes of\nany miracle great or tiny?\n\nThe next day Cartice found herself installed at a desk in Farnsworth\u2019s\npublishing house, pen and pencil both flying. The wished-for foothold\nwas found, and she stood upon it, busy and grateful.\n\nAfter becoming acquainted with a number of the metropolitan people of\nthe pen, she was obliged to give up many of her illusions regarding\nthem. Some of whom she had formed a flattering opinion, on acquaintance\nfell far below the mark. Others who flew high on paper, kept shockingly\nnear the ground off paper. Some who had been successful were struggling\nfrantically against a turn of the tide. But that which astonished and\npained her most was their lack of ennobling ideals. Their pens were\never pointed toward the market, their talk was of prices, not ideas,\nand the shrine at which they worshipped was the ninth letter of the\nalphabet.\n\nFor the most part they were so busy writing and talking of what they\nhad written and intended to write, that none read another\u2019s production.\nLike swimmers in a turbulent sea, their energies were wholly given\nto the business of keeping afloat. In slavery to the baker and\nmeat-seller, they expressed only such sentiments as they believed\nacceptable to the commonplace majority,--otherwise marketable products.\nThey trimmed, tempered, pruned, whittled and cut their literary wares,\nto make them suit what they supposed to be the public\u2019s wants, without\nregard to conscience or convictions.\n\nDid all angle in these shallow waters? No! Here and there a worthy\nfew had boldly refused to write down to the low level of average\nintelligence. They had penned their honest thought, and by so doing\nhad brought a respectable portion of the public up to their plane, fame\nand money sometimes coming with it. Consciously or unconsciously they\nhad operated a great law of the universe, that of giving one\u2019s best to\nget the best.\n\nIn other words they had faithfully followed their highest ideals, in\nthe face of possible ruin, under the pressure of poverty and the frowns\nof public taste and opinion. To do this is to live a great principle,\nto set the soul free. Whoever does this shall reap the reward of\nprinciple; he shall find his measure full. The multitude whose slavish\nbonds of ignorance he defies will cringe and fawn at his feet and pour\nits gold into his coffers.\n\nThe ideal is the real. If it be high its faithful followers are lifted\nup.\n\nWorkers who spend their lives in throwing sops to the mass of mediocre\nminds pay the inevitable penalty at last. They fall into the contempt\nof the very monster whose favor they have courted, who at heart\nrespects only its masters, not its slaves.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOne day Bardell, a straggler whose weapon was the pencil and whose\nfield was the dreadful one of the commonest newspaper art, stopped at\nMrs. Doring\u2019s desk, as he often did, for a word or two. She regarded\nhim as an almost hopeless bungler, but liked his unassertive, dreamy\npersonality. Some of his drawings were altogether abominable, and in\nnone of them did he seem to have the slightest pride.\n\nHe was undersized and queer-looking, with a big square head, a thin\nstooping body, large hollow eyes, and a face that suggested a worn-out\nspirit.\n\nOrdinarily he had almost no words about anything, yet seemed to derive\na silent pleasure from hanging near Cartice\u2019s desk a few moments,\nwhen he brought his drawings to the \u201cart man\u201d of the house. His\nself-effacement was so refreshing to Cartice after much contact with\npushing ninth-letter people, that she showed him marked civility.\n\nTo-day he seated himself and asked her opinion of the drawing he\ncarried. As usual, his manner was without animation, yet she instantly\nfelt that he expected a word of praise. This was extraordinary on\nhis part, as he invariably gave out the wordless impression that he\ncontinued to live more from habit than anything else, but found life\nwholly without interest.\n\nThe picture, which was destined to illustrate a jingling little rhyme\nand visualize it for such readers as have no imagination, represented\na short-skirted maid standing by a rustic fountain, pitcher in hand.\nCartice gave a little cry of delight, as her eyes fell upon it, though\na second glance showed her that something was wrong with it, but what,\nshe could not for a moment say. Presently the blunder stood revealed,\nand was gross enough to mortify Bardell for all time, if she pointed it\nout. Yet it would be his ruin to let him go to the \u201cart man,\u201d with the\ndrawing as it was. So she said, \u201cIt is charmingly done; but there is a\ntrifling error in it. The girl\u2019s feet are put on wrong. Left and right\nhave changed places.\u201d\n\nThe pale, hollow face of the artist flushed red with shame. \u201cI\u2019m most\ngrateful to you, Mrs. Doring,\u201d he said, as his astonished eyes saw the\nhitherto unnoticed blunder. \u201cHad I gone to Buskirk with that it would\nhave been the end of me in this shop. As it is he almost withers me\nwith his contempt. It doesn\u2019t stop at my work, either, but includes all\nthere is of me, physically, mentally, artistically, and financially.\nI sustain myself under it with the reflection that, however profound\nhis contempt for me, it is outdone again and again by my contempt for\nmyself.\u201d\n\nCartice understood well the awful wounds to self-respect men and\nwomen are daily forced to endure for the sake of a chance to earn\na livelihood. She looked at Bardell with a vast, wordless sympathy\nshining in her eyes, thinking of the courage necessary in the tragedy\nof life, as displayed by the man before her and tens of thousands of\nothers. He understood and went on:\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t endure it for the mere sake of living, I assure you. The\nexperience called life, as I know it, isn\u2019t worth it. But when I was\nyounger and considerably more of a fool than I am now, I married,\nas a kind of business or because others did, or I don\u2019t really know\nwhy. Anyhow, I have a little family now, and I have to put up with\neverything, no matter what, in order to support them. Besides, I have\nother ties that hold me to life, and those are my ideals.\u201d\n\nMrs. Doring looked up with a start. \u201cTell me about them,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cEver since I can remember they have been with me, and are my true\nlife,\u201d he said. \u201cThey exist in the shape of simple rustic scenes,\nold-time well-sweeps, tumble-down stone-houses and walls and things of\nthat sort, with people in them who are a part of their history. They\ncome into my mind and insist upon being painted. They are not satisfied\nto be put in black and white. That is crucifixion for them and for me,\ntoo. They beg, entreat and command me to put them in color.\n\n\u201cThis girl at the old-time fountain in this drawing is one of them.\nThat\u2019s the reason the picture isn\u2019t hard and lifeless like most of\nthe truck I bring in here. The blunder of putting her feet on wrong\noccurred, because I drew the feet last, and about that time she found\nout that she wasn\u2019t being painted, but was to be a sacrifice to the\nterrible monster of newspaper illustration, which is an easy way to\nplease children and uneducated people, and an offence to those of a\nhigher order of intelligence. In rage at the use I was going to make\nof her she jumped up and down so fast that her feet got tangled in my\nmind. I saw her, you understand. She was real--I saw her--not in flesh\nand blood, but imagination, which to me is a kind of higher reality.\u201d\n\nAstonished and delighted to find one worker with ideals above mere\nkeeping afloat, Cartice asked him if he worked on his ideals or merely\ndreamed of them.\n\n\u201cI reach after them all I can,\u201d he said, \u201chandicapped as I am. I give\nmy heart to them, though I haven\u2019t been able to give them much of my\ntime. But I have not kicked them out of my way, or murdered them to\nsell their flesh at the nearest market, as many of my associates have\ndone. Nor have I given up the belief that, if we work on our ideals,\ndevote ourselves to them, in the face of every obstacle, we shall be\nlifted out of the dreadful mire of the commonplace, where the feet of\nmost of us stick fast all our lives. But they will have no half-hearted\ndevotion. They want whole-souled service only, and they are right.\nWilling to give us all of themselves it is only fair they should ask\nall from us.\n\n\u201cI have worked but little in oil, and am almost entirely uninstructed,\nyet these pictures form, whenever I take up a brush; and it isn\u2019t\nputting it too strong to say that they beg to be painted. They come in\ncolor exactly as they want to be put on canvas,--not simply in my mind,\nbut before my eyes, though thin and shadowy.\n\n\u201cOne Sunday when rambling in the country I passed an old well, and said\nto myself, \u2018I\u2019ll paint that.\u2019 Instantly I saw a man lying by the well,\nthough no man was there. I painted it that way and put it up in the den\nI call my studio.\n\n\u201cOne day a stranger who came there with one of my friends saw it and\ntook a great fancy to it. He said it was a scene from his memory.\nThe old well was the one at his childhood\u2019s home, and the man was\nhis father, as he had seen him lying in the shade many a time, long\nago. The upshot of it was, that he offered me two hundred and fifty\ndollars for it--it was a little thing--which it is needless to say I\naccepted. When he went away I thought I ought to faint or do something\nextraordinary to work off my astonishment.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you didn\u2019t rest on that?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; I went on with other ideals, in little spots of time squeezed out\nof the odd-jobbery of my daily grind in black and white. I believe\nthat, when we work on our ideals, the very shape of our heads change.\nMy mother says mine is changing, for which I am most grateful, its\noriginal shape being like unto an old-fashioned country horse-block.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you had sympathy in the pursuit of your ideals?\u201d Cartice asked.\n\n\u201cNot always. That was a want I felt for ten years. All that time I\nhunted for a companion, an artist, who, like myself, loved the country\nand rural subjects, to paint with me. At last I found one and have him\nyet. We inspire each other. Together we go to the country on Sundays\nand make studies. The other artists I encounter in my humble path\nare so woodeny, so coarse, so worldly that I need patience to suffer\nthem at all, and I never find them companionable. They chaff me and\ncall me a sentimentalist. I don\u2019t care. I believe in sentiment. If I\ndidn\u2019t idealize life and work, I should have to give both up. I would\nwillingly go and live in the humblest little old place in the country\nand never see a city again, if I could but work on my ideals.\u201d\n\nCartice was seeing the square-headed little plodder from a new point\nof view--an inner and spiritual one, and in its beautifying light the\nsquare head became symmetrical, the stooping shoulders erect, the pale\nface attractive, the eyes aflame with vital force, and the bearing that\nof one conscious of being of value. It was then that she recognized him\nas one of her own people, from her own planet, and blamed herself for\nnot sooner seeing through the transparent mask that hard environment\nhad made.\n\nShe asked him what he thought is to be the fate of those, who, having\nan ideal, stifle, ignore or slaughter it even, and give their time\nand energy to the performance of some poor pitiful, paltry work which\ndemands but a tithe of their ability, for the sake of a little money\nwith which to keep out the unwelcome howls of the wolf.\n\n\u201cLook about you and see,\u201d he said, with a contemptuous gesture. \u201cLook\nat me, a creature slinking in and out of rich publishing houses,\nhunting crumbs, like the dogs that hung round the rich man\u2019s table,\nwith fear written in every movement, dejection in my spirit, indigence\nin my garments and weariness in my heart.\u201d\n\nHe got up and walked to and fro nervously, and as he moved and talked\nhe became transformed. The timid, shrinking little figure vanished and\nin its place strode one whose step was firm and eye fearless.\n\n\u201cThere are hundreds like me. The woods--the city\u2019s accursed woods are\nfull of them. They run over each other in their eagerness to do the\nbidding of some master who can drop a coin or so into their flabby\npurses. Faust sold his soul to the devil for a good price; but we,\nmiserable wretches, sell it daily for a song. Why? Because we are such\npitiful cowards that we can\u2019t face the scarecrow that goes by the name\nof starvation. We live so far below our true selves that we don\u2019t know\nthe law that would carry us through, which is, give the best to get the\nbest. Why not trust the soul? The ideal is the real; it is the voice of\nthe soul, otherwise the voice of God, and it _must_ have expression.\nIf not here and now, then sometime, somewhere. Its account is bound to\nbe presented and _must_ be paid. Death itself can\u2019t prevent the final\nsettlement.\n\n\u201cWhat do they do at school with the lazy boy who slights his lessons?\nAfter a while they turn him back in his books and he has his road to\nretrace. We shall have the same experience, if we have heard the voice\nof the ideal and heeded it not. We shall be sent back to do it all over\nagain--yes, from beyond the grave, for what can there be on the other\nside for him who has betrayed his trust, but contempt and a command to\ngo back and try again?\u201d\n\nHe stopped before Cartice, and with blazing eyes and uplifted finger\nsaid, \u201cIn this moment I determine to outrage my ideals no more, come\nwhat may. I have new light. We all have been acting on the assumption\nthat we knew what would happen if we didn\u2019t do thus and so. In point\nof fact nobody knows. With results we have nothing to do. We have only\nto follow our highest leading and leave the rest to God. To ignore or\ndebase a noble gift that has been entrusted to us is a sin against our\nsouls, which many of us have stupidly committed day after day, and we\nare daily paying the penalty. You shall see me here no more, bartering\nwork in which I have no heart for a few miserable dollars. Never again;\nno, never again.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are right, Mr. Bardell, a thousand times right,\u201d said Mrs. Doring,\nwith throbbing heart and glistening eyes. \u201cI have long known that one\nshould never give less than the best, and that an outraged ideal will\nbe avenged. Yet I daily commit that sin. I used to feel that I had\nsomething more than common to do in the world. I had ideals; but I put\nthem off, always waiting for a time when I could see my way clear to\ndevote myself entirely to them. I waited too long. Now they come less\nfrequently and are less urgent, and I have grown weary and indifferent.\nI wasted my time hunting happiness.\u201d\n\n\u201cHappiness belongs to the ideal,\u201d said Bardell. \u201cIt is a matter of\nsubjective appreciation, so is its opposite, misery. Perhaps it would\nbe clearer to say that happiness exists in the idea one forms of it,\nhence it is purely ideal. We are happy, when we believe ourselves\nhappy. But for the most part all the world thinks happiness is to be\nfound in externals; that it can be secured in thick slices which we\ncan eat like bread, while comfortably seated in good houses. Money and\nmarriage are supposed to have a monopoly of it. What idiocy!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, idiocy,\u201d Cartice echoed. \u201cThackeray says, \u2018For my own part I know\nof nothing more contemptible, unmanly or unwomanly and craven than the\neverlasting sighing for happiness.\u2019 When a child, I had a consciousness\nor memory of a world in which I had once lived where there was no such\nword as happiness, and yet none were unhappy. I understand that now.\nIt means that happiness only exists where it is not thought of, talked\nabout or pursued. I believe it is intended that we shall be happy; but\nnot in our own foolish way. Freedom is the destiny of the human race,\nand that freedom holds for us a happiness infinitely greater and higher\nthan we now can imagine, because it contains our full development,\nour perfected intellectual and spiritual growth. It is the freedom of\ntruth, long since prophesied. When we know the truth, we are free, and\nhappiness comes with freedom. Heaven is within one; it consists in the\nsoul\u2019s unfolding or coming into a knowledge of itself. We reach that\nthrough expression. In this way we grow, as every plant struggles to\ndo. So you see, if we strangle our ideals, we stunt our growth, and\nshall be cut down like the bent, and imperfect tree,--cut down, to come\nagain perhaps, for another trial, and still another and another until\nour destiny is accomplished. Therefore it is that doing our best should\nbe our religion, as it is nature\u2019s religion. It is the only road we\ncan take which leads to the goal at which we must arrive, sooner or\nlater. It is the price each soul must pay who would be saved. Instead\nof that, most of us have gone about hunting happiness on a childish\nplane, and making a great plaint, when we didn\u2019t find it. \u2019Twould be\nlaughable, were it not so pitiful.\u201d\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t it plain enough,\u201d said Bardell, \u201cthat if a wholesome civic and\nsocial spirit prevailed, we should be sufficiently enlightened to find\nour reward in doing our best, whether it were to raise potatoes, polish\ndoor knobs or paint pictures. All great men and women who have helped\nhumankind have done so. They gave their best and nothing less, even\nwhen the world did not want it, and stoned them for it. They had a far\ngreater reward than human appreciation. They grew to heroic, mental and\nspiritual stature. If Jesus of Nazareth had not given the best that was\nin Him, even at the cost of crucifixion, He could not have been the\nlight of the world.\n\n\u201cHow would it be with the world to-day, if all the great spirits that\nmake up the enlightened minority, had merely jogged on doing something\nthat secured the necessities of the body, rather than run any risk\nof being short of bread by pointing to a new road? The soul must follow\nits best light, taking no thought for the result. I shall do that\nhenceforth.\u201d\n\n\u201cI rejoice in your emancipation,\u201d Cartice said, looking at him with\nglowing eyes. \u201cI begin to see what it means to be born again. May it\nnot be to awaken a knowledge of our own being, value and work?\u201d\n\nBardell bade her good-bye with the seriousness of one going on a long\njourney. When he was gone a new sense of loneliness came over her. It\nwas because he already had started up the mountain, leaving her still\nin the vale.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XIX.\n\n                               THE JOYS.\n\n  \u201cWhy went that young life out\n    On honor\u2019s perilous road?\n  The carping tongue and the jealous mind\n    Stay here to wound and goad.\n\n  \u201cA picture once I saw--\n    Three crosses against the sky!\n  And the heaviest cross was the highest one;\n    Perhaps that answers why.\u201d\n\n\nMrs. Doring was surprised and delighted at receiving a visit from the\nJoys one evening. Having parted with everything that goes by the name\nof property, they had come to New York to seek fortune on the dramatic\nstage, both having talent and taste for mimic art. As joyful as ever,\nthey met their changed fortunes with their old-time merry laugh. Their\ntwo children were in an excellent school, and the business now in hand\nwas seeking a chance to earn the money necessary to keep the machinery\nof life moving for them all.\n\n\u201cOur time for looking about is somewhat limited,\u201d said Burton, with\ncheery humor, \u201cas the cash box is not overflowing.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe shall find something,\u201d said Lilla, with calm assurance.\n\n\u201cMUST,\u201d said Mrs. Doring. \u201cMust is a magnet. What we must have, we\nalways get.\u201d\n\nThe difficult search began at once in dead earnest. Thousands had\nwalked the rough road before them, some of whom had found foothold, but\nothers by scores and hundreds had gone down in the city\u2019s remorseless\nmaelstrom. It was like being wrecked in mid-ocean. Some managed to\nseize a plank and keep afloat. Some spent their strength and sank\nearly. Others buffeted the waves long and bravely, only to go down at\nlast, a pitiful, a woful, a heart-breaking spectacle.\n\nThe animal known as the dramatic agent was an unknown quantity to\nthe Joys, hence they were not prepared for his peculiar antics.\nSnubs, insults and sneers rained down upon them. Still they kept\non and still they wore cheerful faces, still the sunshine of their\nhearts was unclouded--the heavenly sunshine that was rated as mere\nempty-headedness by duller, coarser souls.\n\nDays and weeks rolled on, for \u201ctime carries no anchor,\u201d until the money\nthat constituted their plank on the city\u2019s rough ocean was gone.\n\nWhen talking with Cartice one evening, Lilla Joy said: \u201cIf we did not\n_know_ that we outlast death and have endless life before us, Burton\nand I would end our troubles and our children\u2019s too, perhaps. It would\nrequire less courage than we need for one day of life now. But we\n_know_ that we can\u2019t kill ourselves, however much we might try because\nthere is no death. In spite of bullets, knives, poisons and rivers, we\nshould still be alive, wondering, no doubt, why we were so blind as to\nthink we could destroy that which is indestructible. No; our salvation\nmust be worked out clear to the end, uncomplainingly. We are here to\nlearn, and must stay until we are ready to go higher. At the longest,\nour probation is short, and it means so much to us. We are building\nthe edifice of character, which is to last for all time. This little\nchapter of existence is but a day in the great cycle. No; I shall not\ngive up; I shall never despair, let come what may.\u201d\n\nDay succeeded day, but no brighter outlook opened, yet never were they\nseen with a cloud on their faces. Though their purses were empty,\nfriendship and compassion kept away bitter need, and their spirits were\nsweet enough to accept the goods the gods sent without letting their\npride be wounded. It needs a sweeter spirit to receive than to give.\n\nAt last a foothold on the stage was gained for both--an opportunity\nmore likely to increase humility than foster vanity, but they accepted\nit thankfully, and it led on to better things.\n\nAll went well for a time; but one day a telegram came announcing the\ndangerous illness of their children, who had fallen victims to an\nepidemic. They went at once. The children died, and a few days later\ntheir father also closed his eyes to this world.\n\nLilla returned to New York to go on with the grim business of life.\nWas the joy gone from her face? No; it was still there, softened,\nheightened and illumined by a new and holy light.\n\n\u201cDear friend,\u201d she said, as she and Cartice talked together on the\nevening of her return, \u201cthere are three new graves in the old cemetery\nat home, but they do not hold my husband and children. That which each\ncontains is an unreality, a thing never destined to endure,--a garment\nwhich the real being wore to make itself seen by our dim eyes. Alice\nCarey has described it well:\n\n  Though you wore something earthly about you\n    Which once we called you--\n  A robe all transparent and brightened\n    With the soul shining through.\n\n  But when you had dropped it in going--\n    \u2019Twas but yours for a day--\n  Safe back in the bosom of Nature,\n    We laid it away.\n\n  Strewing over it odorous blossoms,\n    Their perfume to shed:\n  But you never were buried beneath them,\n    And never were dead.\n\n\u201cFriends say that I am left alone; but it is not true. I am never\nalone. There is no separation for those whom love unites. We are one\nin the universal spirit of love--God. Did not one friend beyond\nthe grave tell us that every death is a resurrection? Is not the\nstone already rolled away from every sepulchre? Would I call my dear\nones back to face the cruel conditions of life here? No, a thousand\ntimes no. When I looked at the dead face of my husband, so calm, and\nprofoundly at peace with everything, I said \u2018My love, my dear love,\nheart of my heart and soul of my soul, love of my youth and companion\nof my spirit forevermore, I thank God that the hard things of the\nworld can hurt you no more.\u2019 The cruelest pang poverty has given me\nwas seeing him bear humiliation and insult in silence, with heavenly\npatience. Poverty for oneself is bad enough, but when we see those we\nlove suffer because of it, we know exquisite anguish. I can make the\nfight alone, and it is better so. He is safe. That will sustain me.\n\n\u201cAnd my children; they, too, are safe. It is well with them. They are\nnot lost. All things we call lost are in the angels\u2019 keeping.\n\n\u201cI shall go on with my work, thankful for the chance, disagreeable as\nmuch of it is, because of unavoidable contact with shallow, inferior\npeople. But my true life is away from it all, sacred and safe. There is\na reason beyond my fathoming for my being what and where I am. It is\nall right--all wisely directed, and I shall go on, not sullenly, but in\npatience and hope. My faith is that all is well. I must live it and\nnot simply talk it.\u201d\n\nLooking at Lilla\u2019s beautiful face, brightened with the radiance of\nbelief, Cartice Doring knew that one by one she was finding her\npeople--the people whom she dimly remembered as having been a part\nof her life in the remote past, and who were linked by the ties of\nsympathy and love to the present and all the endless future.\n\nHer own people,--the faithful, the heroic, the aspiring, the\nwide-minded, the loving, the true.\n\nLilla was one of them--Lilla of the light heart and rippling laugh in\ndays gone by; and of the sturdy soul and dauntless faith in sorrow and\nmisfortune.\n\nNow Cartice saw that her own people all became acquainted with\nsuffering, sooner or later, and that this was the greatest of teachers\nto the human race. Without suffering nothing is born, nothing grows.\n\n\u201cWho are these in white garments?\u201d asked the saint of the heavenly\nvisions.\n\n\u201cThey are those who have passed through great tribulation,\u201d was the\nanswer.\n\nIn fancy she saw again the long procession, made up of her people. Out\nof the dim and far distant past they came, filing steadily on into\nthe unseen, endless future. In each spirit burned the quenchless fire\nwe name genius; on each face were signs of suffering; \u201cbut no voice\nuttered plaints.\u201d Not all were victors. Many were of the baffled and\nbeaten, the disappointed and defeated, but they went to the wall with\nunbent head and silent, smiling lips.\n\n\u201cMy people, my dear people,\u201d she said, \u201cwith you I breathe the air\nnative to my soul. You sought the truth, you found it, you lived it,\nand it made you free.\u201d\n\nWhat is truth? Who can answer the Roman governor\u2019s question? In the\nSyriac tongue it is described as \u201cthe arrow which flies to the mark.\u201d\nNothing else reaches the mark. Nothing else has a mark. Life has no\nother aim and end than to free oneself from error, through a knowledge\nof truth. This is the only power that can set us free, and only in\nfreedom is happiness.\n\nBut with most people the search is not for truth but success--success\non the commonplace, external plane--which is the very negation of moral\ngrowth and spiritual progress. High minds, dedicated to noble ideals\nare few, but mediocres are numerous.\n\n\u201cWhen we have escaped from the region of mediocrity we revel in a purer\natmosphere, where we may join hands with the elect and dance a round,\u201d\nsaid Marie Bashkirtseff, one of the youngest, bravest and brightest of\nthe elect.\n\nThe mediocre mass is an aggregation of self-enslaved minds, against\nwhose self-satisfied stupidity the gods themselves are powerless.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XX.\n\n                          PEOPLE OF THE PAST.\n\n  \u201cHere sits he, shaping wings to fly:\n  His heart forebodes a mystery;\n  He names the name eternity.\u201d--_Tennyson._\n\n \u201cWhat birth is, that also is death; it is the same line drawn in two\n directions.\u201d--_Schopenhauer._\n\n\nOne evening at the house of a famous orator Mrs. Doring saw a face with\nwhich she had been familiar since childhood, yet never before had she\nseen it outside of the enchanted realm of imagination.\n\nIt was a woman\u2019s face, strong, noble, beautiful, and the eyes, the\nbrown eyes of it, had in them a compassion that embraced the whole\nhuman race.\n\nCartice looked upon it with an all-compelling fascination, for it was\nthe face of one of her own people--the very dearest one--the Helen of\nher young dreams, to whom she used to tell her hopes and yearnings, and\nwho always understood, and gave sympathy and cheer.\n\nHow often had she pictured that face on paper, trying to make objective\nwhat she saw clearly with her subjective sight, but how impossible it\nhad ever been to give the eyes the direct, comprehensive, compassionate\nglow that distinguished them,--the light of the soul itself, which\nwent straight to other souls!\n\nShe would not ask the name lest it prove to be one below her ideal. She\nhardly dared look away lest the precious vision vanish, while her eyes\nwere turned aside. No; it were better to hold the glad fancy as long as\npossible. \u201cDo you know Helen Gardener?\u201d asked a voice at her side.\n\nShe turned to the speaker, dazed and scarcely understanding.\n\n\u201cWhom?\u201d\n\n\u201cHelen Gardener, the author,--that lady you were looking at just now.\nLike Huxley and some of the more humble of us she believes that the\nmain thing is to have done with lying.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen she is my Helen,\u201d thought Cartice. \u201cHow remarkable, too, that she\nhas the very same name I gave her.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, Mrs. Doring,\u201d said her friend, \u201cI want to have you meet her. I\nfancy you two will be pleased with each other.\u201d\n\nWhen Cartice found herself talking with the incarnation of one of her\nideal people of long ago, she had a flash of knowledge of the oneness,\ninseparableness and unchangeableness of all things past, present and\nfuture.\n\nDid her new-found, old-time friend recognize her? It would seem so, for\nshe was strongly attracted to Cartice from the first moment.\n\nThe question under discussion in the little group of whom she was one,\nwas whether art, especially the art of fiction, should exist for art\u2019s\nsake only--that is to give pleasure--or should it also aim to instruct.\n\n\u201cI believe,\u201d said Helen Gardener, \u201cand have lived up to my belief, that\nfiction which merely entertains, and carefully steers clear of the deep\nand often dark problems that face all thoughtful minds is pernicious\nin its effect. The literature of the optimist is the literature of\nshallowness and selfishness, a bid for surface appreciation, an appeal\nto a light and superficial taste. Life is tragic. If it be represented\nin fiction, let the picture be true to nature. The novel should be a\ntonic, not an opiate. What think you, Mrs. Doring?\u201d\n\n\u201cLike Goethe and Schiller I think art \u2018no luxury of leisure, no mere\namusement to charm the idle nor relax the care-worn; but a mighty\ninfluence, serious in its aims, although pleasurable in its means.\u2019 The\nadvocates of art for art\u2019s sake, say that its object is the creation\nof the beautiful. What is the beautiful? Is it that which pleases the\neye only, or has it power to thrill the soul? The great novels have all\ncarried great messages. They have shaken the hearts of men and aroused\nthem to new knowledge; they have broken the bonds of prejudice, and set\nthe bondsmen free. They have effected a movement of the thought-world\nin the direction of \u2018that far-off, divine event toward which the whole\ncreation moves.\u2019 They have spoken the truth as their authors beheld it.\u201d\n\nHelen Gardener\u2019s brown eyes glowed and she smiled affectionately,\nsaying:\n\n\u201cYou and I belong to the same ethical family, Mrs. Doring.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat night as she lay down to sleep, Cartice half persuaded herself\nthat she was again a child, day-dreaming under the elm tree, the world\nunknown and still idealized, and the years that lay between that time\nand the present obliterated.\n\n\u201cDo I wish it were so?\u201d she asked herself.\n\n\u201cNo. I am glad so much of the journey has been accomplished. The future\nis always better than the past. It has in it that which we are to\nbecome, for life is endless becoming.\u201d\n\nCartice and the new-found Helen became warm friends; but not till their\nfriendship had stood the test of time did Cartice tell her how the\ncreative power we call imagination had found her years before.\n\nQuite as unexpectedly did Mrs. Doring one day meet the stranger to whom\nshe had confided her ambitions and dreams under the elm tree long ago.\nShe recognized him instantly, though of course he did not know her.\n\nThe great world knew him well. The bauble fame, and the jewel of\nsuccess were his.\n\nIt was he who had sung:\n\n  \u201cI\u2019d rather fail in Bohemia, than win in another land.\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  Its honors not garnered by thrift or trade,\n  But for beauty and truth men\u2019s souls have made.\u201d\n\nWhen she made herself known to him, his first question was, \u201cHave you\nfound your own people?\u201d\n\n\u201cA few,\u201d she answered, \u201ca faithful few; but the search goes on forever.\u201d\n\nIn a little while he went away--went into the silence.\n\nStill another picture of the past came and blended with the present.\n\nIn the parlors of a friend one evening, Mrs. Doring met a number of\nthe most eminent women from all parts of the country, who work for\nthe political liberty of their sex. There had been a convention in\nWashington, and many of the delegates were \u201cdoing\u201d New York before\nreturning home.\n\nA lady from what then was a territory, but is now a state, charmingly\ntold some of her experiences in laboring with members of her\nlegislature. She mentioned name after name, relating various incidents,\nsome humorous, and some exciting compassion on account of their\nrevelation of the depths of ignorance in certain legislative minds.\n\n\u201cAfter several encounters with darkened minds of the class I have just\nmentioned,\u201d said the speaker, \u201cit was a pleasure to have a chat with\nRepresentative Kendall. We knew well where he stood, for throughout\nhis career, as editor and lawmaker, he has distinguished himself as\nthe staunch friend of every movement that promised to help women win a\ngreater freedom and therefore gain a greater usefulness.\n\n\u201cOnce I asked him how it was that he who had appreciated women\npersonally so little as never to have married one, was yet so loyal a\nsupporter of them in the aggregate that he cheerfully put his shoulder\nto the wheel of every cart which carried their burdens.\n\n\u201c\u2018Now that,\u2019 said he, with a boyish laugh and sunny smile, \u2018has its\nroot in a bit of sentiment; but I don\u2019t deny that it has grown into a\nprinciple. The only woman I found indispensable to me found me very\ndispensable to her. Through that experience I learned that love,\nif it be genuine, can rise higher than possession. She was of your\nemancipated; that is, she made a place for herself in the world, and\nleaned on no one. Her life showed me that woman could grow to heroic\nmental stature, if she would think, work and act for herself. The one\nof whom I speak requested me to do what I could all my life to make it\neasier for women to get out of their dependent condition. I have done\nso and have found pleasure in it. She is in the world somewhere, still,\nand I feel that everything I do for women helps her. That\u2019s my story.\nTake it and use it, if you wish, as an example of how the monster man\ncan be humanized and regenerated by a woman who neither loved him nor\nmarried him.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Whatever good I may have done, whatever I have achieved in any\npraiseworthy direction, I owe to that woman. But for her wholesome\nencouragement, if living at all, I should be still a clerk at some more\nprosperous man\u2019s desk, withered in spirit and wasted in body, and with\nno brains at all. It used to be quite the correct thing, in stories,\nfor good women to marry rakish fellows, and \u2018make men of them,\u2019 as the\nphrase had it. I am now convinced they achieve that result far quicker,\nwhen they don\u2019t marry them, whether rakish or otherwise, but make them\nstand on their own feet entirely.\u2019\u201d\n\nMrs. Doring listened to this story, feeling very much as might a ghost\nwho comes wandering back to its old haunts and hears some one talking\nof its life when on earth, for this Kendall was her old lover whom\nshe loved not and she was the woman of whom he spoke. Turning to the\nwriting desk of her hostess, she wrote:\n\n\u201cCartice Hill Doring sends regards to the Honorable Charles Kendall.\nIt is with grateful pleasure she learns that he has been faithful to\nthe promise made to her long ago, to do what he could to make life\nbroader and freer for womankind.\u201d\n\nThe response was prompt and full. He told the story of his life from\nthe day of their parting to the day of writing. Then came these\nparagraphs:\n\n\u201cI am more than glad to have found you again. Not that I ever really\nlost you, for you have an eternal abiding-place in my mind and heart.\nThough I have forgotten much and wish I could forget still more of\nthe rubbish of memory, neither you nor aught pertaining to you can\nbe forgotten. You are not forgettable. But I am glad to be able to\ntalk with you once more, although it be only on paper and across a\ncontinent. For me the end of the drama is near. I am in the last act,\nwhich has but few scenes. Life and death! what are they? We know as\nmuch of one as of the other, for we understand neither. We drop the\nquestion of whence because the imminent whither faces us and must be\nmet, and dark enough it looms before us as we confront it at short\nrange. Who can answer this cry of perplexed humanity?\n\n\u201cI turn to you as I did in the past, and bade you decide whether I\nshould go or stay. Now I have no choice but to go; yet tell me, shall I\ngo with peace and trust into light, or must I lie down to be wrapped\nin darkness and silence forever? It is a time when my own strength is\ninsufficient, and I reach out for the clasp of an assuring hand.\n\n\u201cIs it strange that I turn to you for the help I need on this journey,\nwhich, though lonesome, is brief? It seems a natural thing to do. In\nall the years since I saw you, and have known nothing of you, when\nthe way was uncertain, I always turned to you for guidance. I said to\nmyself: \u2018Would Cartice Hill wish me to do this?\u2019 And I did that which\nI thought you would sanction. So you see you have been with me all the\ntime. We have never been separated.\n\n\u201cTo me you are always young--young and full of courage and hope. I\nsee you as I saw you last, a precious picture in my memory. The years\nthat have passed since then are blown like a breath away. I am sitting\nbeside you in the park again. I can almost touch your blue dress, and\nI hear the scratching of your parasol as you wrote with its tip on the\nground.\n\n\u201cThe disease that was incipient in me in youth has been bravely baffled\nby this climate. I sometimes think it is the insidious agent that will\nultimately destroy the human race. The end must come, however, even\nhere, and I see that it is coming.\n\n\u201cSo tell me what life has taught you about death, if anything. No\nmatter how hard and grim and fearsome the knowledge may be, I want to\nknow it. Strange that although we devote our lives to learning, and\nmany become vain of their acquirements, of this, the most important of\nall subjects, nobody knows anything, and nobody cares to learn till\nabout to open the dread door.\u201d\n\nThis appeal Cartice answered by telling the story of her communion with\nfriends called dead, and she told this with a directness and simplicity\nthat went straight to the mark. To her it was clear enough that, if a\nman die, he shall live again,--and shall grow, his growth depending\nupon his aspirations. Genius itself has been described as a \u201cfaculty\nfor growth.\u201d Being a citizen of the universe, man is destined to know\nthe universe as his native village. The form only changes. Death is not.\n\nTo this Kendall wrote:\n\n\u201cYou have destroyed the last enemy for me. \u2018Only the form changes.\u2019\nNeed we dread that? We may even be said to be used to it. We haven\u2019t\nthe same bodies we began life with. They have changed in every\nparticular, again and again.\n\n\u201cHow extraordinary have been your privileges of learning those things\nto which most of us have been so blind. Why not write the story out\nmore fully and publish it? Since it has helped me, might it not help\nothers? But don\u2019t put it into a newspaper. There it would take no\nhigher rank than the traditional, blood-curdling ghost-story. Make a\nbook of it. That will place it on its own feet, to stand or fall by its\nmerits.\n\n\u201cYes, tell your experiences with those who dwell in what we call\nanother world; in fact, however, another condition.\n\n\u201cI have had an instinctive, though not unwavering belief that this life\nwas not the end of us--perhaps not the beginning; but I had my hours of\ngloomy doubt. The old twaddle of an eternity of happiness made up of\nharps and golden streets did not appeal to either my intelligence or\ntaste. Perhaps, it was a shade less attractive than annihilation.\n\n\u201cLearning to grow and to do, that is what makes an immortality worth\nhaving.\n\n\u201cI have lived on good terms with my conscience, which is of an\nold-fashioned cut, not from fear of hell or hope of heaven, but because\nI am that sort of man. I could not do otherwise. Yet I wish I might\nhave learned what you tell me, earlier. I think it would have made the\nills of life here of less moment and might have enhanced its joys and\nbeauties.\n\n\u201cWho, understanding the philosophy of continued life as it has been\nrevealed to you, could fail to try and acquire some of the capital,\nthieves cannot steal, with which to begin the larger life that opens\nto us, when we pass the gates of death? It is helping me to make my\nremaining time of more value.\n\n\u201cYou have influenced me as no other person has done ever since I knew\nyou. Now you light the road out of the world for me. I begin to see\nthat there are no accidents.\n\n\u201cLet who will write the shallow tales that reach no farther than the\nwedding-day. Write you the wonderful story of the love of God, as \u2019twas\ntold you by those who have tasted death and found it not bitter--tell\nhow this love encompasses and pervades everything in the universe,\nconserving all and destroying nothing. Tell of the happiness destined\nfor the soul of man, which consists in endless unfolding. Tell all this\nas simply and directly as you have told it to me, and you will inspire\nthe doubting and cheer the despairing.\u201d\n\nTo which Cartice replied: \u201cIn an old book it is written, \u2018Though one\nreturned from the dead, they would not believe.\u2019\u201d\n\nKendall wrote: \u201cIn the same book it is written, \u2018Let your light shine.\u2019\u201d\n\nThat night she sat down to write the first chapter of the book, but\ninstead wrote this:\n\n\n                             HIS MESSAGE.\n\n  He came, my dead love, at the close of the day,\n  Though the earth had long covered his garments of clay.\n  His face glowed with light and with love as he smil\u2019d\n  And spoke in the voice that my heart had beguil\u2019d--\n  The beautiful voice that my heart had beguil\u2019d.\n\n  \u201cYou have wondered, my darling, what soul was the one\n  To first greet me with love when my dying was done--\n  When I woke from the slumber that stretches between\n  The flesh-and-blood world and the kingdom unseen--\n  The world that you see and the kingdom unseen.\n\n  \u201cKnow then that the spirit, earth\u2019s veil cast away,\n  Sees only the true in that radiant day.\n  He who first o\u2019er my spirit, newborn, bent and smiled,\n  Was the foe who had gone from me unreconciled--\n  My foe who had gone from me unreconciled.\u201d\n\n  So spake my dead love and then vanished away,\n  Like the mist of the valley when riseth the day.\n  But I know, since that moment, that hate is a dream\n  From which the soul wakes when it crosses Death\u2019s stream--\n  Awakes to love only, across that dark stream.\n\n  I know, too, that Death cannot change, cannot kill\n  E\u2019en the person. My lover, though dead, loves me still;\n  For he came, as of old, and upon me he smil\u2019d,\n  And spoke in the voice that my heart had beguil\u2019d--\n  The beautiful voice that my heart had beguil\u2019d.\n\nThe book was begun. The writing of it was not an easy task in spite of\nthe writer\u2019s warm interest in her theme. Little snatches of time, after\nthe daily grind at her editorial desk was over, were all she could\ndevote to it. Often she was too tired to write a line until she had\nrested hours. Then, perhaps, to make up for such indulgence, she wrote\nfar into the night--wrote as though bayonets were pressing her--wrote\nwith no thought of publisher or public in mind. The truth, to write\nthe truth, as it was revealed to her, this was her inspiration, her\nstrength, her reward.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXI.\n\n                        THE BUTTERFLY\u2019S FLIGHT.\n\n  \u201cThe Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid\n    His shadowy lance against the spell,\n  That hid her Self: As if afraid,\n    The cruel blackness shrank and fell.\n\n  Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep,\n    He took her with him through the night,\n  And swam a river cold and deep\n    And vanished up an awful height.\u201d\n\n  --_S. M. B. Piatt._\n\n\nSome time, it may be, before the world is very much older, we shall\nknow well what now we but dimly discern, that thought is the substance\nand will the operating force of the universe, and that both are\nelectric.\n\nThen shall we understand the irresistible powers of attraction which\nthought has for kindred thought; and we shall know why we seek\neternally our own kind of people, consciously or unconsciously, and\nnever know rest for the spirit until we find them, for only with them\nis to be had the life-giving, soul-sustaining quality of sympathy,\nthrough whose vibrations the universe was formed and is maintained.\n\nIn obedience to this law of attraction Cartice Doring continued to\nsearch for persons awake to the joyful fact that there is no death, so\nshe might learn more of the laws which govern communion between life\nhere and beyond. She found believers, but because of the various fads\nand diversified foolishness with which they frequently garnished their\nbelief they were of slight help to her.\n\nEach gave his faith a name that revealed the fence he had built around\nhis mind, though he condemned all other fences. Some preached against\nthe phenomena of the spiritual philosophy and secretly reveled in it.\n\nAnd there were the theosophists, who, as Mr. Stead says, can always\nexplain everything. From the proud eminence of their omniscience many\nof them looked down on plain spiritualists, and advised against showing\nany civility to spirits. Yet they patronized mediums and astrologers on\nthe sly, and frequently produced a little of the phenomena themselves,\nmerely to show their occult power.\n\nAmong these and sometimes outside the sacred pale, were\nreincarnationists who make the plausible and beautiful theory of\nprogression through an eternity of existences distasteful and tiresome\nby their \u201cmemories\u201d of past human experiences. They had been princes of\nhigh degree, invariably, never paupers or criminals. Napoleons, C\u00e6sars,\nMahomets, Cleopatras and Sapphos were wearisomely plentiful; but\nhumbler types were rare. Many were so busy feeding their vanity with\nthese romantic hallucinations they had no time to learn anything useful.\n\nHypnotists were numerous, many of them claiming that their particular\nscience accounted for everything under the sun.\n\nThen there were many who declared that in all the universe there is but\ngood; but they fell into factions represented by different leaders, and\nfought many and many a bitter bout to prove it.\n\nIt was enough to make one cry out in anguish, \u201cWhere can wisdom be\nfound? And where is the place of understanding?\u201d\n\nYet it had its hopeful side. It showed that many were thinking, and,\nthough thought took different trends, all roads eventually lead to the\ntruth.\n\nLetters came often from Chrissalyn, but they contained no messages\nfrom friends invisible, for she never gave them an opportunity to say\nanything, after Cartice went away. She was afraid. Sometimes a picture\nor vision flashed before her, in spite of her avoidance of everything\nof the kind. If it pertained to her friend she told her; but that was\nall.\n\nSix years had passed with never a sight of the Butterfly\u2019s beloved\nface, and never a word from the dear people of the unseen world.\nCartice had felt their presence often, and knew that they were\nfaithful; but she was hungry for a word from them.\n\nNow came a letter from Chrissalyn begging her to spend some weeks with\nher. It was a particularly girlish and extravagant letter, almost a\nphotograph of the mind of the unregenerate Butterfly of old. She knew a\ndelightful little summer resort where they could go and be out of the\nsight and sound of work and care of every hue. She had set her heart\nupon it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nArranging for a leave of absence Mrs. Doring soon was on her way. She\nfound her friend in extraordinarily good spirits, and their reunion was\nof a school-girlish order of delight.\n\nAfter a few hours the years of their separation seemed never to have\nbeen. We have all had this experience and wondered at it. After long\nabsence we come back to a familiar spot, and in a little while find it\ndifficult to persuade ourselves that we have ever been away. Perhaps\nthis is a proof that to the true self there is neither separation nor\ndistance, nor past nor future. All is near and all is now.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Butterfly had a new assortment of radiant wings--otherwise\ngarments--ready to spread gaily at the springs. One by one she\ndisplayed them with childish pleasure, for personal adornment had ever\nbeen her fetich.\n\n\u201cAs we get on a little in years,\u201d she said, \u201call we can do to head off\nthe enemy, Age, is to make believe we ignore him. Extra paint and\nfeathers are necessary. I\u2019ve had it flung in my face that I\u2019m not so\nyoung as I was, but I won\u2019t admit it. Anyhow I\u2019m still young enough to\nexcite envy and jealousy.\u201d\n\nHere she laughed with diabolical pleasure.\n\n\u201cI intend to make the best of this world and stay in it as long\nas I can, notwithstanding it\u2019s no paradise. But I have lost some\nillusions in regard to it. For instance, that of my own irresistible\nattractiveness. I can draw moths yet, but formerly I thought I could\nattract men, providing I ever encountered such beings.\u201d\n\nAgain, night after night, Chrissalyn sat as of old, calling up for her\nfriend\u2019s delight the unseen people who were always ready to respond.\n\nWhen Cartice spoke of the long time that had passed with never a word\nfrom one of them, Moreau said:\n\n\u201cNo time has passed. There is no time. To the spirit a thousand years\nare as one day.\u201d\n\nThe last evening in the city came. They were to start for the springs\nearly next day. The luggage was carefully packed and so their minds\nwere easy on that score. When they went upstairs the house was\nperfectly still, all save themselves being asleep.\n\nThey sat down in Chrissalyn\u2019s room to chat. Cartice thought she never\nhad seen the Butterfly look so young, so beautiful, so hopeful, so\nhappy.\n\nPreparing the table for Planchette they eagerly awaited the messages\nthat would surely come over that inexplicable telephone.\n\nNow something passing strange occurred. From the empty air beside them\nmusic burst forth--music the like of which they had never heard--music\nmade by instruments unknown to them, but of unearthly sweetness, with\npower to thrill to the depths of their being.\n\nAwed and amazed the two friends looked at each other, in silence. Then,\nas its heavenly sweet vibrations shook their souls, the tears ran from\ntheir eyes, they knew not why.\n\nAgain and again the unseen musicians made marvelous melody for the\ntwo enchanted listeners. Sometimes the chords were plaintively sad,\nsometimes joyous, but always penetrating the deepest recesses of\nbeing, the inner sanctuary where poetry and dreams have their high and\nheavenly dwelling-place.\n\nThe two entranced listeners sat facing each other, lost in the\ndelicious spell of the melody.\n\nSuddenly an electric breeze enveloped Cartice, sending over her that\ncreepy thrill we are all familiar with, which resembles fear, but\nis not fear. There, before her eyes, just back of Chrissalyn, stood\nPrescott, looking exactly the same as when with them in material form.\nSomehow she was made to understand that she must not cry out--nor tell\nChriss that he was there. Spellbound and silent she watched him. He\nlaid his hand on the Butterfly\u2019s shining head, smiled and spoke. She\nsaw his lips move, and the glitter of his teeth, but heard no sound,\nunderstood no word. Then, while her eyes were still upon him, he\nvanished.\n\n\u201cYou look very pale, Cartice. Are you frightened?\u201d Chrissalyn asked, as\nthe music ceased.\n\nMrs. Doring shook her head, for her tongue, dry and powerless, was no\nlonger a willing servant.\n\nThe music came back no more. After talking of the wonderful phenomenon\nawhile, they bade each other good-night and parted.\n\nCartice could not sleep. The strange events of the evening drove away\nrepose. Again and again she recalled the expression on Prescott\u2019s face,\ntrying to translate it into words, but in vain. Only one thing was\nplain. It was something pertaining to the Butterfly, and he didn\u2019t want\nher to know it.\n\nAfter hours of wakefulness she slept and dreamed. She and Chrissalyn\nwere dancing in a great and fantastic company. Everybody else wore\nmasks, but their faces were uncovered. Chrissalyn was the partner of a\ngraceful knight in black velvet who whirled her on and on, endlessly.\nAt last they rose into the air together, and Chriss became a veritable\nbutterfly, with beautiful silvery wings. The knight also developed\nwings, but they were black, like his garments.\n\nCartice called to her friend to come down, but she only laughed and\nrose higher, and finally flew out of sight. With a wildly beating heart\nCartice awoke.\n\nRising, she dressed for the journey. Knocking on Chrissalyn\u2019s door, she\nreceived no answer. Then she called her, and with light and jesting\nwords bade her make haste.\n\nStill no answer. Opening the door she entered, but started back with a\ncry whose thrill of horror went to the heart like a knife.\n\nThe Butterfly had, indeed, spread silvery wings and flown, for there\nlay her chrysalis, cold, white and pulseless. The black knight of death\nhad taken her out of sight. The delicate, long-ailing lungs had given\nway, and the inevitable end had come. She who loved the world and its\nfoolish, fleeting pleasures had gone suddenly out of it. Whither?\n\nIt was a sad heart that Mrs. Doring carried back to New York, in spite\nof her knowledge that the Butterfly had but spread her wings.\n\nSometimes in the darkness and silence of night she talked aloud to her\nvanished, yet ever-present, friend.\n\n\u201cWhere are you, Butterfly? Can you hear me and see me? Do you know how\nheavy is my heart sometimes? And are you happy in your new world? Is\nlife more beautiful, more perfect there? And do you love me still?\u201d\n\nNo voice replied, but the light, caressing, electric touches came\nsometimes, and the stricken heart was comforted.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXII.\n\n                         THE PROP THAT FAILED.\n\n \u201cYe have read, ye have heard, ye have thought,\u201d he said, and the tale\n is still to run.\n\n \u201cBy the worth of the body that once ye had, give answer--what have ye\n done?\u201d\n\n  --_Rudyard Kipling._\n\n\nTwo years passed, and Mrs. Doring still sat at her editorial desk.\nFarnsworth had been the kindest and most considerate of employers.\nThe envious said no woman ever had an easier situation. They raised\ntheir eyebrows, when they said this, implying the usual sentimental\ninsinuations; but they were mistaken. Farnsworth\u2019s regard for Cartice\nhad no sentimental coloring whatever. He admired her ability and\ndelighted in giving her a chance, and making that chance as pleasant as\npossible, having views on the unfair, industrial, political and social\nrulings from which women suffer.\n\nHe had come to New York, a talented struggler. Now he was a\nmillionaire, chief proprietor of a great publishing house, which had\nbecome great under his management, and he loved to make the road a\nlittle smoother for those less able and less fortunate.\n\nCartice loved him, it is true; but not as the common mind understands\nthe term. Sometimes her eyes grew moist, while she looked at him and\nwished she might have a chance to prove her gratitude. He was to her\nlike the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. In the weakness of\nspirit ages have bred in her sex, she regarded him as a wall that stood\nbetween her and possible calamity.\n\n\u201cI need fear no financial disaster, while he lives,\u201d she thought. \u201cHis\nhand will be ever friendly; his heart ever kind.\u201d\n\nFarnsworth was far above the average of men, but he had a serious\nweakness of character that made curious comradeship with his better\nattributes. Anybody, the least trustworthy, the most malicious, could\nsow in him seeds of suspicion against his best friend, and in ten hours\nthey would be full-grown trees, loaded with bitter and baneful fruit.\nWhen this happened his kindness vanished and he could be as cruel as\nhate. His conscience fled the field, whenever his vanity was ruffled.\n\nKnowing this a woman poisoned his mind against Cartice Doring, by a few\nlying words--a woman who believed it would be to her interest to get\nCartice out of her way. The seed sown sprouted, grew, blossomed and\nbore fruit within twenty-four hours.\n\nThe next day Cartice found a note of dismissal on her desk, the\ncurtness of which was incompatible with the pretensions of a\ngentleman, if addressed to one merely in the capacity of employee. But\nwhen the employee was a social equal, a faithful friend of years and a\nlady, it showed a lack of self-control on the part of the writer seldom\nsurpassed.\n\nThe tenor of it was that, as she was \u201cnot doing justice\u201d to the work\nentrusted to her care, her services were dispensed with. A check for\nthe whole of the unfinished week was enclosed.\n\nCartice read the letter and sat like one frozen, and the\nheart-breaking, unbearable look of long ago came again into her eyes.\n\nEvery one who has received an unexpected, felling blow from the hand of\na friend can understand the blended astonishment and anguish of that\nmoment.\n\nShe knew who had turned Farnsworth against her and why it had been\ndone, but that could not help the irremediableness of the situation.\nShe could not go to Farnsworth and mortify him by telling him this; and\nshe knew his implacable spirit too well to hope that he would so much\nas allow her an audience. Serious as was the blow to her finances, its\nworst effect was on her heart. Black and deep are the bruises made by\nthe hands we love.\n\n\u201cI must not forget what I owe him for past kindness,\u201d she said,--\u201cmust\nnot let this cruelty put hatred into my heart. I must forgive him, for\nhe knows not what he does. Being a man, he cannot know how difficult\nis life for a woman, under the existing order of things. Neither does\nhe know how often heretofore my heart has bled from cruelty; nor how I\nhave loved him; nor how weary and feeble I am much of the time.\n\n\u201cNo; he doesn\u2019t know. Would any of us ever hurt another if we knew\nall that other has to bear? Besides, it is better to be the victim of\ninjustice than the perpetrator of it. Ugly as is poverty, it is better\nto endure it than to have the power which the possession of millions\nconfers and misuse it.\n\n\u201cPoor Farnsworth,\u201d she said. \u201cSuccess has spoiled your naturally\nbeautiful soul.\n\n\u201cThe great destroyer of human conscience that goes by the name of\nbusiness permits you to put me out of your service in a summary and\nhumiliating manner, which puts me out of your life and friendship at\nthe same time, though moral right to treat another human being in this\nway you have none. But the law of causality is ever operative, and you\ncannot escape the consequences of your deeds. You will get back your\nmeed as you measure.\n\n\u201cI accept your dismissal as part and parcel of the destiny I am working\nout. Sooner or later every earthly prop on which I lean is taken from\nme. Everything has a meaning and purpose. The lesson I have been slow\nto learn is now plain to me. It is that I must stand alone, and\nso must every soul, somewhere, some time. Props are destroyers of\nstrength and character. In all the universe there is but one on which\nwe may lean without inviting weakness, and that is Eternal Being, the\nbackground of all life.\u201d\n\nGathering up her little possessions from the place that had been\nher official home for eight years, Mrs. Doring walked out of it\nheavy-hearted and solitary. The rock from which she had expected\nshelter had vanished from her horizon forever. More! It had never been\nthere, save in her imagination. It was an illusion from which now she\nwas free.\n\nCuriously enough we regret the loss of our illusions, yet we ought\nto thank God fervently every time we get rid of one, for it means\nthat we are emerging from ignorance and darkness into light and\nknowledge,--approaching nearer to the truth that shall make us free.\n\nOn reaching home Mrs. Doring sat down to take a practical view of the\nsituation. For nearly twenty years had she worked faithfully, having\nbegun at seventeen. She had lived in modest comfort, and by dint of\nself-denial had saved one thousand dollars. What man above mediocrity\nwould think that a fair recompense for half a lifetime\u2019s work?\n\nA sudden cutting off like that is what any one may expect who has\ngiven his or her time and talents to the building up of another\u2019s\nbusiness. It is the soul\u2019s vengeance for not trusting it entirely, and\nconfidently following whithersoever it may lead.\n\nBut there is something shamefully immoral in our business methods, when\nan employee after years of faithful service can be flung out without\na chance for a word of defence. It is as though our father should\nunexpectedly open the door of his home and bid us begone forever. And\nis not our employer our business father, from whom we have a right to\nexpect consideration? Does he owe us nothing more than our weekly wage?\nMust his relation to us be always measured only by dollars and cents?\n\nAmong the letters Mrs. Doring took with her from the office unopened\nwas one from Bardell, now in Paris, famous and prosperous beyond his\ndreams. Strange irony of fate that brought to her his glad story of\nfresh successes on the day that carried defeat to her.\n\nWith the superstition common to Bohemia Bardell considered Cartice his\nmascot. His letters were always frank, friendly and charming. His last\nwords were: \u201cFollow your ideals. They will lead you into freedom.\u201d\n\nThis reminded her of her book. It was finished long since; but the\nwriting was scarcely half the battle. It languished for want of a\npublisher. Those to whom it had been submitted, had returned it, one\nand all, with the contempt, but thinly veiled with regrets, it had\nexcited in their infallible minds.\n\nOne plainer spoken and less heavily veneered with the world\u2019s polish\nthan the rest, said to her face:\n\n\u201cCome now, Mrs. Doring, you mustn\u2019t expect anybody to publish stuff\nof that kind--digging into the meaning of life, higher methods of\nevolution, \u2018shall we live after we die?,\u2019 \u2018ultimate destiny of the\nhuman race,\u2019 and all such heavy timber. People take no interest in\nthese questions. What we want is a rattling good love-story, with\nplenty of hugging and kissing in it. I like that in or out of a novel\nmyself. There must be some iron-clad obstructionists in it, too, cruel\nparents or other able marplots, and the hero must get her in the last\nchapter or sooner. Anything but a story that doesn\u2019t end all right. The\npublic abhors it. Now, your book is loaded with high-up, mountain-peak\nthought, and wouldn\u2019t sell at all.\u201d\n\nAnother, with whom also, she had a personal interview, a young man\nwith extraordinary faith in his own wisdom, smiled as he returned her\nmanuscript, and made his smile so vocative it needed few accompanying\nwords. \u201cIt is, ah--you know, Mrs. Doring, so wide a departure from\nthe standard of art in fiction, that it might make even a publisher\nridiculous, to say nothing of the author. One must keep somewhere\nwithin sight of the existing canons. This, if you will pardon me, flies\nin the face of every one of them.\u201d\n\n\u201cI dare say,\u201d answered Cartice. \u201cI never troubled myself about the\nexisting canons. It is life as I know it that I have tried to portray;\nnot life as somebody else says it should be painted in books.\u201d\n\nAfter a number of equally disheartening experiences, the book was\ncarefully laid aside to await the judgment day.\n\nMeantime these same publishing houses were exuding cart-loads of\nmarketable abominations, which were scattered in all directions, doing\ntheir share in weakening the minds of their unfortunate readers. Life,\nas depicted by them, was a mere sex-chase, more or less interrupted by\nthe usual difficulties, all of which was quite in accordance with the\n\u201cexisting canons,\u201d so much respected by the young man with the smile.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPerhaps nothing gives us a lonelier feeling than to be cut off from\nour field of daily activity, whatever it may have been. Cartice found\nherself set back to the dreadful days of her beginning in New York. It\nwas as though she had gone steadily up a steep slope, to a respectable\nheight, only to be knocked violently to the bottom by the hand that was\nhelping her upward.\n\n\u201cHad I developed the best that was in me--followed my ideals\u201d--she\nsaid, \u201cthis could not have happened. In that case I should have stood\nalone long since, leaning on no prop, depending on no person\u2019s caprice.\nSet-backs and knock-downs are our schoolmasters, and they are ever busy\nwith us until we learn our lessons.\u201d\n\nA loneliness assailed her heart, poignant, sharp, deep. All her life\nits resistless waves had at times rolled over her spirit,--a flood that\nwould not be stayed. It was that kind of loneliness that creates a\nsolitude which is not placed in a densely peopled universe.\n\nThen came the comforting reflection that we are never alone, never\nsolitary, however much we may seem to be, and never absolutely on our\nown hands, in spite of appearances. About us are ever the spiritual\nhosts, and back of us, within us and about us, the Supreme Self, to\nwhich each is both inlet and outlet.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the evening of Mrs. Doring\u2019s first day of idleness, Gabriel Norris\ncalled to see her. For several years he had been a resident of New\nYork. In the worst of the thick mass of the miserables he had set up\nhis cobbler\u2019s bench, and opened an adjoining reading-room; and there he\nfished for the souls of men, in the great ocean of wretchedness whose\nhuge waves beat about his door.\n\nCartice told him the story of her summary ejectment from the place\nthat she had so long occupied, and the various shifts that she had been\nmaking in her mind for the future.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a good thing,\u201d he said, \u201cwhen you don\u2019t know just what to do,\nnot to do anything--to wait,--wait without worry or anxiety--wait and\ntrust. Unseen influences are ever at work on our destiny. We can hurry\nnothing, change nothing. Rest for a time. You have been so busy most of\nyour life that you have had but little chance to get acquainted with\nyourself. You have a little capital ahead; rest on that. New ideas come\nin seasons of repose, for then the mind is receptive.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is what I had half-decided to do,\u201d she answered, \u201cthough I am\nstill so much a slave to the old, erroneous belief that I carry myself\non my own shoulders, I scarcely could get my consent to it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd when you feel so disposed,\u201d continued Gabriel, \u201ccome to my\nreading-room and read a story or a poem to my sheep--\u2018my po\u2019 los sheep\no\u2019 de sheepfol,\u2019 whom I try so hard to gather in. You may not know\nit--you know yourself so little--but you have the most beautiful voice\nI ever heard. Your reading, as well as your speech, is exquisite music.\n\u2018The soul of man is audible, not visible,\u2019 says Longfellow. \u2018It reveals\nitself in the voice. A sound alone betrays the flowing of the eternal\nfountain.\u2019\u201d\n\nAnxiety and worry fell away from Cartice Doring soon as she determined\nto rest and trust. A profound philosophic truth is here revealed. When\nwe trust, God Himself carries our burdens, and we are set free from\ncare. Trust is the essence, the vital principle of religion, which is\nat heart a recognition of the divine intelligence within us, about us,\nand is reflected by us,--the reality we call God.\n\nIt was a joy to be the mistress of her own time, to know when she began\nthe day that she could do with it what she pleased. It was luxury to\nsit at an open window and feel the air blow over her, and not be goaded\nby any thought of duty undone. She went about the city and enjoyed its\ntreasures of art and beauty. She formed new friendships and cultivated\nold ones. She read and, through sympathy, entered into, the lives and\nfeelings of authors and the people of their creation, as never before.\nShe became better acquainted with herself, and by that means with all\nothers. She went to Gabriel Norris\u2019s unsectarian temple and helped him\nfeed his sheep. There the music of her beautiful voice called in many\na lost one. The bitter loneliness that shadowed her at times fled away\nand troubled her no more. Her spirit came in sympathetic and loving\ntouch with others, with all that is, with the universal mind itself,\nfor this is the purpose of life, the union of the entire being with\nits original. This is the true freedom which is the destiny of the\nhuman race. The individual self becomes one with the universal, and is\nhenceforth free from limitations, from restrictions, from bondage of\nevery kind. It exchanges its little circle of personal desires for the\ngreat world-consciousness. Whosoever does this even in the most limited\ndegree puts care and trouble behind him.\n\nThus it was that this truth which Cartice Doring had long theoretically\naccepted, became a part of her being. She began to live it and be it,\nfor we only really accept truth when we are it. Her eyes lost the look\nof suffering that lighted them at times with a moving and resistless\nfire, and became trustful, hopeful, peaceful, like those of a happy\nchild.\n\nDifficulties and disappointments vanished and fear vexed her no more.\nShe was like those who have won all battles, put all troubles behind\nthem. She had the knowledge that within herself was power over all\ntemporal dragons; that her welfare depended on no man\u2019s whim; that\nthere are no accidents; that He who slumbers not nor sleeps, is\n\u201cguiding each of His creatures in the current of an eternal purpose\u201d;\nthat she was as indestructible as the universe, and as old, as young\nand as deathless as its builder. She thought no more of happiness,\nbecause blessedness had come into her life,--the blessedness which\n\u201cconsists in progress toward perfection.\u201d In an undefined way she felt\nherself approaching high summits, understanding that there is neither\nhigh nor low, near nor far in the universe save in thought.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXIII.\n\n                       THE BOOK AND ITS CRITICS.\n\n  The tale is as old as the Eden Tree--and new as the new-cut tooth--\n  For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and\n    Truth;\n  And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying\n    heart,\n  The Devil drum on the darkened pane: \u201cYou did it, but was it\n    Art?\u201d\n\n  --_Rudyard Kipling._\n\n\nOne day Mrs. Doring received a letter from a lawyer announcing\nKendall\u2019s death, and advising her that by his will she was sole heir to\nhis property, which was valued at about twenty-five thousand dollars--a\nfortune in Bohemia. A few lines from the testator were enclosed, the\nlast his hand penned. He had but one request to make in regard to the\ndisposition of it, and that was that she use part of it in bringing out\nher book.\n\n\u201cSee,\u201d she said to Lilla Joy, who had long lived with her in the little\nflat, \u201chow my trust is rewarded. Influences unseen were working for me\nwhile I rested. Had I been a little wiser, I might have saved myself\nmuch torment all my life. Worry hinders instead of helps, I believe it\nis one of the forty deadly sins the Egyptians tried to avoid.\u201d\n\nWith money to work with it was not difficult to find a publisher for\nthe book. It was a true tale, told in a simple, straightforward manner,\nof life and its meaning, as its author understood them. The theme\nof it was that life goes on after the change we call death, and is\ninconceivably enlarged and ennobled for all who aspire.\n\nSuch of the critics as worship plots and believe that the chief aim of\nlife in stories and out is to marry and be given in marriage, made it\nthe subject of very rough surgery.\n\n\u201cIt is a most unwholesome book,\u201d said one. \u201cLove and marriage are\nscarcely mentioned in it. Some twaddle that pretends to come from\nacross the river of death is the only bait it has with which to angle\nfor the reader\u2019s interest, a theme in which healthy minds will find no\nattraction.\u201d\n\nDeath waits for every one that breathes, yet any light thereon is\n\u201cunwholesome and not attractive to healthy minds,\u201d according to those\nwho tell us what we ought to read. Strange doctrine, but prevalent!\n\nAnother said: \u201cOne more of those deplorable books that deal in the\nsupernatural and aim to make readers take a morbid interest in death.\nIts author has no eyes for the thousand fresh themes of life, but must\nneeds delve into the darksome hereafter for material with which to\nburden her absurd pages. Why should any one turn from the sweet theme\nof love to wander in paths so remote from taste and wholesome imagery\nas this?\u201d\n\nSome sneered at it, some ignored it and many abused it. Few had so\nmuch as a tolerant word for it. Yet verily a mystery guideth the fate\nof a book as well as the growing of a daisy, for \u201cThe Last Enemy\u201d sold\nastonishingly fast, and was read and talked about far and wide. In a\nfew months it was the best known book of the year, in spite of the\ncritics, and brought fame and money to its author, though too late, her\nfriends said.\n\nIs anything too late? Come not all things at their appointed time,\nneither sooner nor later than they are due? In the divine drama of the\nuniverse the curtain never falls until the play is finished. In our\nshort-sightedness we say our friend died too soon, or his good fortune\ncame too late; but we are in error. Everything is part of the eternal\nplan, and to be out of time or place an impossibility.\n\nNever to Cartice Doring had life appeared so well worth living, nor\nwork so well worth doing. To Lilla Joy she said:\n\n\u201cI am just beginning to live. I am learning what life means, what we\ncan make of it, and what I am. We are love.\n\n\u201cWe love because we cannot help it. It is our expression, and the\ngreater, wider and more all-inclusive our love, the fuller, larger,\nmore perfect and more abundant is our life. How beautiful it all is!\nHow orderly and harmonious! How glorious!\n\n\u201cMost of my life I have written down to the majority of readers. Now I\nshall bring them up to me. I shall follow my ideals, as I did in \u2018The\nLast Enemy.\u2019 Our ideals! What are they but our souls, trying to reveal\nthemselves to other souls. Here in this noble poem by Katherine Lee\nBates, the ideal speaks:\n\n  \u201cAt the innermost core of thy being, I am a burning fire\n  From thine own altar-flame kindled, in the hour when souls aspire:\n  For know that men\u2019s prayers shall be answered, and guard thy spirit\u2019s\n    desire.\n\n  \u201cThat which thou wouldst be, thou must be; that which thou shalt be\n    thou art;\n  As the oak, astir in the acorn, the dull earth rendeth apart,\n  Lo, thou, the seed of thy longing, that breaketh, and waketh, the\n    heart.\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  \u201cCall me thy foe in thy passion; claim me in peace for thy friend:\n  Yet bethink thee by lowland or upland, wherever thou willest to wend,\n  I am thine Angel of Judgment, mine eyes thou must meet in the end.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know that well, Lilla. Woe be to those who have outraged their ideal\non that day, when their souls shall meet it face to face. I have sinned\nagainst mine, and have met its accusing eyes already. But now I have\nbegun my atonement, and am eager to go on with it. There is joy in\ncreating what we wish to create--that means giving form to our ideals.\u201d\n\nBut Lilla was silent, wondering what ideals her friend would follow in\nthat country into which flesh and blood can never enter. In her eyes\nLilla saw the strange light that flames up only when the end of the\njourney is near; and on her face, and in all that she said and did was\na hint of imminent change, plain to others, unseen by herself.\n\nIn the Sanscrit is a story of one who asked what is the most wonderful\nthing in the world. The answer is that every man should believe that\nall shall die but himself. The reason of this is that he shall not die,\nand his soul knows it.\n\nRemember this, you who see your beloved going down into what we call\nDeath\u2019s Valley, serene, hopeful, unconscious of their doom. They are\nwiser than you. They know they shall not die.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXIV.\n\n                             WHO ARE THEY?\n\n \u201cWho are they that are compelled to recommence the same existence?\u201d\n\n \u201cThey who fail in the fulfilment of their mission, or in the endurance\n of the trial appointed to them.\u201d\n\n  --_Allan Kardec._\n\n  If the red slayer think he slays,\n    Or if the slain think he is slain;\n  They little know the subtle ways\n    I keep and pass and turn again.\n\n  --_Ralph Waldo Emerson._\n\n Personally I must confess to one small weakness. I cannot help\n thinking that the souls toward whom we feel drawn in this life are the\n very souls whom we knew and loved in a former life, and that the souls\n who repel us here, we do not know why, are the souls that earned our\n disapproval, the souls from whom we kept aloof in a former life.--_F.\n Max M\u00fcller._\n\n\nMonths on swift wing slipped away. Cartice\u2019s pen was busy every day,\nand every day she delighted more and more in her work, because she was\nsaying what she wished to say, was expressing herself fearlessly and\nfreely. New plans of action fairly rioted in her brain. Plans! When had\nthey ever worked for her?\n\nThere are persons who mark out everything ahead, and Fate lets them\nlive their arrangements to the letter, but Cartice was not one of them.\n\nThe lamp of the spirit, which tells unutterable things, now burned in\nher eyes, with an unearthly brightness, throwing its touching radiance\nover all her words and deeds; but she did not understand. She alone saw\nnot the heavenly illumination.\n\nBut one day the imminent change was made plain to her, though how she\nnever told. Coming to Lilla, with whitened face, and the old-time,\nall-compelling appeal in her eyes, which neither man nor woman could\nsee without a bursting heart, she said:\n\n\u201cI must soon leave you. It has been shown me and I understand.\u201d\n\nUnder the spell of the wordless pain in the glorious eyes, her heroic\nfriend flung her arms about her, crying, \u201cCartice! Cartice! My dear\none! I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it!\u201d And together they wept tears\nof such anguish as only the strong ever weep.\n\nFor a few days the heart-breaking look continued in Cartice\u2019s eyes; but\nin the silence of the night help came from the great source, and she\ngot up one morning with peace shining in her face.\n\n\u201cOften in the past,\u201d she said to Lilla, \u201cI have wished I could die\nand be out of trouble. But now I want to live: now I know that dying\ndoesn\u2019t put us out of trouble. We must grow out of it by evolving above\nit, learning to master it.\n\n\u201cMost of my life, as I look back upon it, seems to have been mere blind\ngroping. Now, when I think I have learned how to live, the business of\nlife is done. And I have learned how to work in a way that never would\nmeet failure; but that, too, is done.\n\n\u201cAnd yet, in spite of the mystery and the grimness of it, something\ntells me all is well; that nothing can be lost; that what I have\nlearned will be useful somewhere. Perhaps we are here for the purpose\nof learning how to live and work. When that is accomplished, we must\ngo on and learn other things, and we can take no other road than the\none we have named Death, and painted black. But you and I know that it\nleads into light, and, though we die, we shall continue to live, and\nshall evolve, unfold and expand, even \u2018it doth not yet appear what we\nshall be.\u2019\n\n\u201cYet knowing this--for we have knowledge, not simply belief--there\nare moments when a childish terror seizes me. But why should I fear?\nMillions have traveled the same road, the timid and faint-hearted as\nwell as the bold and brave, and all went forth alone. We say alone,\nbecause we see no visible companions go with them; yet we know that no\none is ever alone, either here or on that inscrutable journey, or at\nits end.\n\n\u201cBut notwithstanding all I have learned of the life to follow this, I\ncannot picture it--cannot form any clear idea of it. Nor can I realize\nthat life as I know it now must end. I try to think of the days to come\nwhen I shall not be here, nor be anywhere as I am now, and when the\nform through which I act will have vanished utterly from the face of\nthe earth, but I cannot! I cannot!\n\n\u201cI am always I in consciousness, always existing, never dead, never\ndifferent. Is it not the mystery of mysteries?\n\n\u201cI try to imagine a time when I may come here to our little home and\nbe unseen by you, unable to lift a book, flutter a curtain or speak\none word that you can hear; but I cannot. How inconceivable it is that\nin a short time I shall be in a condition so different from this that\nimagination itself cannot paint it!\u201d\n\nCartice awoke from sleep one day with a loud cry, a wail of terror that\nwent to the heart.\n\n\u201cWhat is it, dear?\u201d asked Lilla, bending over her.\n\nHer eyes wandered wildly around the room, and at last, reassured by a\nsight of familiar objects, lost their look of affright.\n\n\u201cIt must have been a dream,\u201d she said, \u201cbut so very real. I was lying\nunder the elm tree at home, as I so often did when a child; yet I was\nas I am now. Close about me came a little company of people shining\nlike the sun. When they were very near, I knew them to be people from\nmy planet--my own people, whom I remember well, and whom I saw in a\ndream years ago. One, a woman, the most beautiful of all, had a face\nso familiar I almost spoke her name; but I could not quite grasp it,\nthough she seemed very near and dear to me.\n\n\u201c\u2018Your work is done,\u2019 she said; and there was sadness in her voice, and\npity in her eyes.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well done?\u2019 I questioned, though with a sinking of the heart, for I\nbegan to be afraid, I knew not why.\n\n\u201c\u2018Did you always do your best?\u2019 she asked.\n\n\u201c\u2018No;\u2019 I answered, conscience-smitten.\n\n\u201c\u2018Then\u2019--\n\n\u201cI interrupted, for I could not bear to hear what I feared she would\nsay.\n\n\u201c\u2018Who art thou, who look so pitiful and seem so dear, and whom I yet\nfear?\u2019 I asked.\n\n\u201c\u2018I am thine Ideal--thine Angel of Judgment--who hath so often come to\nthee and from whom thou hast almost as often turned away.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018But I serve you now,\u2019 I cried. \u2018I do my best. I have learned my\nlesson.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Yes, you have learned the lesson, and will do better next time,\u2019 she\nsaid, compassionately.\n\n\u201c\u2018Next time?\u2019 I echoed, trembling with fear.\n\n\u201c\u2018Yes; next time, for you must come again and do it over and do it\nright,\u2019 she said, sternly.\n\n\u201cThen I shrieked and awoke. O Lilla, now I see, I know, I understand.\nI must live my life again and live it better--must do my best all the\nway through. I don\u2019t want to--no; I don\u2019t want to; but I must, and so\nmust all who fail to give their best--not as penalty, but because it is\nthe only way to learn, and to grow.\n\n\u201cWe have lived always; we shall live always. This is the foundation\nrock upon which we build the indestructible temple, character. Victor\nHugo spoke of life as a fairy tale a thousand times written, and said\nthere was not an age in which he could not find his spirit. He believed\nhe would exist forever, inasmuch as he felt in his soul thousands of\nsongs, and dramas that never had found expression: He was sure he\nshould come again and give them life. I, too, feel within me numberless\ntales untold which must be born somewhere. A great soul, like Hugo, may\nvoluntarily come again and again to help others; but a recreant dreamer\nlike me MUST come.\n\n\u201cYears ago I had a dream that now I understand. It is my belief, as\nyou know, that every mortal has a soul-guardian--a being higher than\na spirit, a dweller in the land of souls, beyond the middle kingdom,\nfar away from the earth and its ties. This guardian gives us all the\nexperiences we have, because he sees their uses in our development. The\nbitter cups we would fain have pass from us he resolutely holds to our\nlips, because he knows it is good for us to drink of them. Blessings\ndisguised as calamities and sorrows come from his hand, and all the\nfires of anguish that scorch us are fanned by his breath.\n\n\u201cI dreamed of this guardian angel. He was going with me through life,\nor rather through a series of scenes or situations representing\ndifferent lives. I could talk to him, and hear him, but could not see\nhim. Of the many pictures that were shown to me I remembered only two\nwhen morning came.\n\n\u201cIn the one which represented a life before this I was resting on\na rude couch, outdoors, near a blazing fire, in the midst of a\nnauseating swamp. It was after night, and the light from the fire\nplayed fantastically on dank little pools, rank tufts of grass, curious\nplants, watery mosses and slimy roots.\n\n\u201cLooking off into the swamp I saw a great mottled snake curled up in\na hollow, looking directly at me, malignity darting from his eyes. I\npointed him out to the people who were about me, and told them I would\nkill him. But one and all urged me to let him alone, and predicted\nserious trouble, if I disturbed him.\n\n\u201cI answered that it was trouble to have him there, throwing hate upon\nme with his eyes, and that, at least, I would give him a hint that his\npresence was not desirable. So I got up and threw a stone at him. It\nstruck him straight on his back, but rebounded as though it had met a\nwall, without so much as bruising him, save in spirit. It enraged him\nfearfully. He raised himself in the air perpendicularly till he stood\non his tail, and hatred flashed from his eyes in bright electric rays.\n\n\u201cHe did not stop at this, but hurled invective after invective at me in\nplain English, and threatened me as a snake never threatened before. He\nhissed, raved, cursed and glared at me, and swore that he would take it\nout of me in slices scattered along a thousand years. In short, he made\nme understand clearly enough that his principal business forever after\nwould be to make me wretched. So direful were his threats that I lay\ndown on my small bed quaking with terror, fearing either to sleep or\nstay awake, and \u2018none had power to protect me from mine enemy.\u2019\n\n\u201cTo make it worse, the people about me said, \u2018I told you so,\u2019 and\nsermonized on the matter. They said, \u2018You can\u2019t destroy hate with hate.\nThat increases it. That mottled fellow in the swamp is not the enemy\nyou have to dread. The cruelty you put out, when you threw a stone at\nhim, is your real enemy. It will come back to you through him, because\nit is the law. He will trouble you far down the line. Your heart shall\nbleed again and again, because of blows from hands you never injured;\nbut it will be but your own deed returning to you, and something of\nyour mottled foe shall mark you, for many and many a day.\u2019\u201d\n\n(Lilla looked at the mottled eyes of her friend with a new interest,\nwondering if the curious splashes of tawn had been flung there by her\nancient enemy.)\n\n\u201cNow I understand why I have been treated cruelly often by the very\npersons I loved and believed in. Somewhere I have earned it. Somewhere\nI gave it forth, and it has come back a hundredfold, for good and bad\nboth multiply themselves on their return trips. Even Farnsworth\u2019s\ncruelty to me, which hurt me so much, was no doubt in accord with the\nlaw of causality I had set in motion. But he, too, shall reap as he has\nsown.\n\n\u201cThe other picture represented this life, I think. I was climbing a\nhillside, accompanied by a little party of friends and attended by the\nguardian of my soul, who beguiled the way by pleasant speech and cheery\ngood-will. At last we reached the top and found there an old-fashioned\ninn, clean and comfortable, with bare white floors, big rooms, and\nbroad wooden sofas, that looked inviting to our tired bodies. Before\nI entered, I looked to the west, and saw a scene of beauty never to\nbe forgotten. Sunlight, soft as moonlight, fell on fields of swaying\ngrain, on trees gay with blossoms and heavy with fruit at the same\ntime, on flowers whose perfume sweetened all the air, on birds whose\nbright plumage dazzled the eye. I gazed spellbound. The very sky above\nwas new and strangely beautiful. Looking down, I saw what before I had\nnot noticed, that the hill was cut off close by my feet, and between me\nand this lovely landscape yawned a bottomless ravine. Stretching forth\nhis hand and pointing to it, my guardian said, \u2018Behold the promised\nland! But you shall not enter in--not yet! No; you shall not enter in\nuntil you come with the great seal in your hand.\u2019 With one longing,\nhungry glance at the paradise I was not yet ready to know, I turned and\nwent into the inn, longing for rest.\n\n\u201cI have almost reached the inn. I have seen the promised land but have\nnot yet the great seal. After a rest in the inn--who knows,--perhaps I\ncan bridge the ravine.\u201d\n\nThose last days--those precious last days, how beautiful they were!\n\nNorthern forests put on a glory of gold and red after the frost has\ntouched them with its destroying hand, and the winter is near. Dying\nsuns diffuse a strange brightness, and the spirit of man, when passing\nout of sight, often radiates a heavenly splendor.\n\nSo it was that the soul of Cartice Doring never gave forth so much of\nsweetness as in the last days of her stay here.\n\n\u201cIt is much to have learned one\u2019s lesson,\u201d she said. \u201cNext time I\ncan begin in a higher class. So you see, after all, this life wasn\u2019t\nwasted. Yes, I have learned a little, and shall not find the road so\nrough next time.\n\n\u201cWould I could give others what I have learned.\n\n\u201cI smile at my early idea of happiness, though it wasn\u2019t unique at all,\nbut quite common--the ideal of all the undeveloped.\n\n\u201cNow I know that happiness is a spiritual condition--spiritual\nhealthfulness--spiritual unfolding the heaven within one which comes\nwhen self is forgotten and we see our oneness with all that is. It is\nour unfolding, our growth or evolution into knowledge, truth and light.\n\n\u201cIt comes when we learn how to love,--when we see ourselves in every\nother self, and the supreme self in everybody and everything.\n\n\u201cWhat matter whether we call the great ocean in which we move and live\nand have our being, God, soul, energy, force or thought, we are its\noffspring or manifestation, and can never for one instant be separated\nfrom it. We are because it is. And see how this divine principle ever\nstrives for our highest health and happiness. If I but cut my finger,\nit miraculously heals the wound. Out of its boundless resources it\nforms a new cuticle to cover the abrasion. If my spirit becomes sore\nthe same power brings to me from every side, the sympathy and love, the\nspiritual sunshine and air which heal that too.\n\n\u201cThe hunt for happiness is a true instinct of the soul, a prophecy of\nits divine destiny. We were intended for happiness, but a happiness far\nbeyond our usual ideals.\n\n\u201cA great seer has said that \u2018love is life, and love in us is the life\nof God in the soul of man.\u2019\n\n\u201cMy soul has always been homesick for its native land and its own\npeople--which are but other names for love and sympathy--infinite\nlove, changeless sympathy. Others, too, are familiar with this kind\nof hunger. All feel it and give expression to it in the chase of one\nphantom after another, and to each phantom they give the name of\nHappiness.\n\n\u201cDoes it not prove that all souls are irresistibly drawn toward the\ngreat source of love from which they sprang, but know not the way\nthither? The bosom of infinite love is the happiness they long for, but\nin their ignorance of their true being and destiny, they pursue every\nwill o\u2019 the wisp that dances before their eyes.\n\n\u201cIt is the soul\u2019s quest for its home, which is not place, but state.\nWe need not wait for death to let us in, for it is no more beyond the\ngrave than here. The pure in heart have reached it.\n\n\u201cWe can experience resurrection before death, if we will. When our\nspiritual nature is awakened, and we are set free from thraldom to\nmaterial gods, we have been raised from the dead. We can take hold on\neternal life now, for it, too, is a state of the soul. It is to know\nand live and be the good.\n\n\u201cThe long, long sleep of ignorance must end. The soul shall awaken to\na knowledge of itself and be consciously one with Eternal Being from\nwhich it was projected, and be free, full-grown and happy.\n\n\u201cHow shall this union be brought about? By our growth, our unfolding.\nWe are our own redeemers. The individual is the reflection or\nmanifestation of God. The higher man grows intellectually and\nspiritually, the more of God does he reflect. When he becomes pure\nin heart, high in mind, noble and unselfish in all his instincts and\ndesires, he is in union with God, working His Will.\n\n\u201cA modern philosopher expresses it thus: \u2018An individual is a subject\nwhich unfolds itself as an object.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Man, the progressively unfolding thinker, has descended from the\neternally perfect creative Thinker.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Eternity for every man is but the unceasingly clear consciousness of\nhis own identity in nature with the primal Thinker, of whose thought\nthe whole universe is but the outer, organic form!\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018An individual is an indivisible, immortal, self-completing, ideal\ntotality.\u2019\n\n\u201cNow I think I know why at any cost we should give expression to\nour ideals. They are streams from the central fountain of thought.\nTo ignore them is to put ourselves out of harmony with the truth and\nessence of the universe. To give them expression is to vibrate in\nharmony with the great heart of all that is. What is a genius but one\nwho is in touch with the central source of truth and transmits it to\nothers?\n\n\u201cNow we begin to understand what the love of God is--a great ocean in\nwhich we perpetually swim, the \u2018infinite and eternal energy from which\nall things proceed,\u2019 an energy that science admits but cannot explain.\n\n\u201cIt is written, \u2018Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make ye\nfree!\u2019 We shall know! WE SHALL KNOW.\n\n\u201cAlready you and I, Lilla, know a part of the truth. We know that\ndeath is not the extinction of memory, conscience, love and all their\nattendant emotions. These are manifestations of the soul and cannot be\ndestroyed. The body, a clay image projected by the soul to make itself\nvisible, shall pass, but \u2018the soul lives on, and all space, all time,\nall beatitude are its heritage and its domain.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe great secret of what, whence and whither shall yet be known. The\ndream of man\u2019s perfection shall come true. You and I have read a few\npages in the sealed book. For us the last enemy has been destroyed, the\ndark river bridged. We know there is no separation; that the dead are\nneither dead nor gone. This is the great secret of the universe.\n\n\u201cI think I understand what it means to see God. The more we see of Him,\nor It--the great principle of intelligence and love--in the atom, the\ninsect, the human being or the angel, the nobler and sweeter will be\nour lives. All possible forms and modes of existence are expressions\nof himself. As Whitman says, \u2018A mouse is miracle enough to stagger\nsextillions of infidels.\u2019\n\n\u201cMy lifelong dream of finding my own people shall be realized.\n\n\u201cMy people, my own people--they who aspired, struggled and\nsuffered--who came to their own, and whom their own so often refused\nto receive. They who first announced the truth in all ages, and were\nstoned and crucified. They who brought their divine gifts of poesy and\nprophecy, of art and science, of light in its thousand forms and laid\nthem on the world\u2019s ungrateful altar. My dear people, I see you in\nthe far dim aisles of the past, and I see you toiling up the shining\nheights of the future, and know you for my own, my spiritual kindred,\nwith whom I dwelt in pleasant and also difficult places \u2018huge times\nago,\u2019 and with whom I shall yet mount and mount great steeps now unseen.\n\n\u201cAre not all, all our own people, each a manifestation of the great\nsoul or self that is imaged in all other selves? But they who know\nhow to love are more truly our own. They are farther on their upward\njourney. \u2018For as many as are led by the spirit of love, these are the\nsons of God.\u2019\n\n\u201cAll philosophies, all religions, all literature that fail to lead us\nback to love, our central source--love, the essence and substance of\nlife, the energy of the world, the potential, moving force of all that\nis or ever shall be, are vain and foolish.\n\n\u201cOnly to love one another. This is the whole law. This is what we are\nalways longing and hunting for, though we give it many names and see it\nthrough many veils and in many shapes. But it is love, only love, the\ngreatest and simplest thing in the world.\n\n\u201cOnce I read a story of an Oriental magician who performed miraculous\ncures. When one whom he had healed asked his name that he might mention\nit in his prayers, he answered: \u2018I have many names, but they all mean\nthe same--Love.\u2019\n\n\u201cLove is all there is. Everything else is only an appearance or\nphantom. My search for my own people was but the search for love, yet\nhow many mirages I saw, into how many pits I stumbled before I came in\nsight of its temple!\n\n\u201cBut the love that opens the kingdom of Heaven, like the love of God,\nis \u2018broader than the measure of man\u2019s mind.\u2019 It _is_ the love of\nGod--for it is the love of all that is. We know not love until we see\nourselves one with the whole, without division and without difference,\nuntil we see every man as our brother and every woman as our sister and\nevery child as our own, or better, as ourselves.\n\n\u201cSince I know that the law of sowing and reaping is inevitable in its\noperation, I begin to believe I have not found love in satisfying\nmeasure, because I have not given it out. My conception of it was the\nusual narrow one, and that fills one with self and selfishness. Love\nknows no self.\n\n\u201cAm I about to leave this world? No; because the world is part of the\ngreat Everywhere, which is the soul\u2019s home. Yet it is a solemn time\nwith me. But I shall float out on trust. I _know_ that all is well, and\nnever can be anything else.\n\n\u201cThe Hereafter, so much wondered about.--What is it? Just a\ncontinuation of being--an eternal now, an endless is, an everlasting\npresent moment.\n\n\u201cShall our dead be as they were here, when we find them again? This is\nthe cry of the bereft. They forget that nothing is the same from day to\nday. The child becomes a man. As a child the mother loses it whether\nit live or die. Change, incessant change, is the law of external\nnature. But the soul of the man is the soul of the child awakened and\nenlightened. Shall it be less, when it puts off its eternal form and\nbecomes clothed in finer matter?\n\n\u201c\u2018Give us our dead, as they were, when they left us,\u2019 wail the mourners\nat the tomb. Does any one here go away for a year or years and come\nback the same? Never.\n\n\u201cIs the future beyond death a mystery? Yes; but not more so than the\nfuture here. Does any man know what the next hour will bring upon him?\nEvery moment ahead of us is as completely wrapped in mystery as is all\nthat lies on the other side of the grave. In both cases we can only do\nour best, trusting in the love that created us, and that shapes our\ncourse.\n\n\u201cBut the loneliness of life! Who can fathom it or explain it? and what\ncan mitigate it? Mediocrity feels it not, for its sympathizers swarm.\nBut in the hearts of the highest it is densest and deepest. As the soul\ngrows upward, it feels itself isolated, and the isolation has in it a\npoignant anguish.\n\n\u201cHours come upon us, when we feel that we touch no other soul. Even\nthe companions we take to our hearts never enter the most solemn\nrecesses of our nature. There the soul sits alone--always alone. And\nthis invisible place, this awful solitude is the soul\u2019s real world, its\nmost fateful portion of existence. Yet into this secret place, this\nhidden and lonely life, we take the ideas and feelings we cherish in\nrelation to our fellow-beings, so that though we seem to live alone in\nthe depths of ourselves, yet we are never severed from our kind, never\nreally solitary. The oneness of humanity asserts itself and its claims\nupon us, and in spite of the soul\u2019s solitude we understand that no man\nliveth to himself.\n\n\u201cBut the ache that nothing cures is always with us. We turn to the\narms of human affection, it is there. We sit down to the feast of the\nintellect; it is there, likewise. We wander in search of new scenes;\nbut, in the face of all that can delight the eye, it cries out from\nwithin for the satisfaction it never finds.\n\n\u201cSatisfied! Satisfied! Shall the yearning soul ever be satisfied? In\nthe hope that it would, mankind constructed its far-off heaven, and\nsaid to the weary and the disappointed: \u2018There ye shall be satisfied.\u2019\n\n\u201cBut it is not true. Never, never shall we be satisfied. Though we\nexplore all the mysteries of all worlds and taste all the joys and\npleasures therein, we shall not be satisfied. \u2018We but level that lift\nto pass and continue beyond.\u2019\n\n\u201cWhen I walk in graveyards and see the childish twaddle about \u2018Rest,\u2019\n\u2018Heavenly Mansions,\u2019 and \u2018New Jerusalems,\u2019 there carved upon the\nstones, I am pained at the mental infancy they denote. Dying does not\nmean rest, nor does it open heavenly mansions or golden cities to us.\nThe striving and the climbing go on and never end.\n\n\u201cIt is the ache in the heart, the void in the soul that cries out to be\nfilled which lift us upward. Were we content, we should rise no higher.\nWere we satisfied, we should be in a condition which would insure our\ndestruction. But the soul\u2019s hunger for finer and better food is the\nprinciple of eternal life which makes us indestructible and eternally\nexpansive. By means of it we grow. Thank God that neither here nor\nelsewhere can we attain content!\n\n\u201cAnd as we go higher we can reveal to lower souls their sorrows, and\nshow them how to overcome them--how to grow. This is the greatest\nservice one soul can render another.\n\n\u201cBut we must not be content with mouthing theories--we must live our\nlove, must give from the heart and look only to the heart, for \u2018out\nof the heart are the issues of life.\u2019 \u2018The sign of the mastery of the\ndivine life in us is the readiness to serve.\u2019\n\n\u201cAnd we must not dream of rest. There is none anywhere, neither here\nnor on all the endless road that stretches before us. Life is action,\nceaseless action.\n\n\u201cNor is there any heavenly shore where we can wander free from\nperplexities and obstacles. Always, always will there be something\nto overcome. We are building, building, ever building, we know not\nclearly what. Every unfolding of the divine life within us opens the\nway to still more unfolding. The heaven, the happiness, the joy we\ndream of and search for, is in the unfolding, not in any fixed state at\nwhich we shall arrive, for we pause nowhere.\n\n\u201c\u2018This is not Death\u2019s world: it is Life\u2019s. Death has no empire\nanywhere.\u2019 In time to come its very signs shall pass away. There shall\nbe no more graves, nor marks to graves to say that the dust of any\nlie there. All dust is the same and all places the same; and life\neverlasting is the eternal heritage of all souls.\u201d\n\nA few days later Cartice said she saw the Butterfly near her, and that\nshe now had most beautiful wings. Others thought her mind wandered, but\nLilla understood.\n\nClasping the hand of her friend, she smiled and slept; but her waking\nwas on the other side of death, with her own people.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XXV.\n\n                              LAST WORDS.\n\n  Come, lovely and soothing death,\n  Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,\n  In the day, in the night, to all, to each,\n  Sooner or later, delicate death.\n\n  Prais\u2019d be the fathomless universe,\n  For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,\n  And for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise!\n  For the sure enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.\n\n  --_Walt Whitman._\n\n\nGabriel Norris uttered the few reverent words that consigned the dust\nof Cartice Doring to the purifying flames. This was his conclusion:\n\n\u201c\u2018No man liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself.\u2019 We all\nunderstand that better, when in the presence of the voiceless dead,\nthan at any other time. Then it is that we feel our oneness most;\nthen do we come into more solemn touch with the great heart of all;\nthen, even when our hearts are breaking, we better understand the\ninfinite love that manifests in every event of our lives, even the last\nmysterious one which takes us out of the sight of our fellow-men.\n\n\u201cThen it is that the problem of life confronts us with importunate\nappeal, and demands from our bleeding hearts an answer.\n\n\u201cShe whose still white form lies here, lived, aspired, suffered, joyed\na little perhaps, and learned a part of the great lesson whose book has\nno end, worked side by side with us, and then passed out of our sight,\nleaving only this perishable temple to return to its elements.\n\n\u201cHas she but passed through a door to array herself in new garments\non the other side, in a larger chamber, or has the unit of her\nindividuality melted back into the Universal ocean, as a drop of water\nfalls again into the sea from which it has been dipped?\n\n\u201cDoes the heart that has groaned in anguish and throbbed with love find\nthe end of everything in dreamless oblivion? Or does it still throb on\nsomewhere out of our sight, but not out of the care of the divine love\nthat thought it into being?\n\n\u201cFor her this great question was answered long before the illusion\nwe call death transferred her to a larger chamber. She _knew_ that\nshe should never die; that, as a unit, an individual, a soul, she was\nindestructible, the heir of all the ages through all the ages.\n\n\u201cCommunion of spirit? Do you sneer at it as an unsatisfactory, even if\na possible thing? What else have we here? We are spirit now as much as\nwe shall ever be, and all our communion with each other is spiritual,\nfor every act of our lives has a spiritual quality, and is but the\nexpression of spirit.\n\n\u201cThe things we see are but fractions of that which we see not. We never\nsaw the soul to whose visible form we bid farewell for a time to-day.\nWe saw but its mask, its clay image. That which made its impress upon\nus was the spirit. By means of what it said and did, by the flash of\nkindness in the eye, by the pressure of the hand in sympathy, by all\nthe means great and small by which it expressed its good will and love\nto others, it revealed itself. These are what we shall remember and\ncherish.\n\n\u201cLife is not all \u2018a striving and a striving and an ending in nothing.\u2019\nIt is an endless becoming.\n\n\u201cLet us work by every means in our power to educate the individual, to\ndevelop the unit, the imperishable, never-dying unit, for this is the\nsecret of all improvement, all growth, all happiness. Only by growth\nout of ignorance into knowledge can we come into our inheritance of\neternal good.\n\n\u201cNothing is great in this world and nothing is small. I cannot say of\nthe soul whose transition we celebrate to-day that it was either, for\nthere is no distinction. It aspired, and that means much. It strove to\ngo up higher; and that striving will lift it into the fulness of light.\n\n\u201cThat living, loving, truthful, beautiful spirit, has not gone back\nto the sea of universal Being to lose its identity. There is no going\nback. In that sea we live and move and have our being now, as well as\nin the future, yet we remain individuals. The union with the one mind\ntoward which we are all moving is an harmonious ever-upward-tending\nlife, not an extinction of the individual. The school, the club, the\nstate are its prototypes here,--a blending of the many units in one\nbody, but the extinction of none.\n\n\u201cWe sorrow, but not without hope. Our friend still lives. We shall find\nher again.\u201d\n\n\u201cI loved her,\u201d said Gabriel Norris, as he sat with Lilla in the little\nflat after all was over. \u201cTo be near her I came to New York. She never\nknew; but now she knows. My love did not crave possession. I was happy\nin loving. I am still happy in it. She lives and I love her. It is\nenough.\u201d\n\n\n                               THE END.\n\n\n\n\n                          Transcriber\u2019s Notes\n\nErrors in punctuation and spacing have been fixed.\n\nPage 138: \u201cas much as as any\u201d changed to \u201cas much as any\u201d\n\nPage 173: \u201cdefeat and humilation\u201d changed to \u201cdefeat and humiliation\u201d\n\nPage 194: \u201cwould is queer\u201d changed to \u201cworld is queer\u201d\n\nPage 302: \u201cby the wall\u201d changed to \u201cby the well\u201d\n\nPage 306: \u201chave a monoply of it. What idocy!\u201d changed to \u201chave a\nmonopoly of it. What idiocy!\u201d\n\nPage 311: \u201cThe animal knows\u201d changed to \u201cThe animal known\u201d","title":"An index finger","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":86379}