3358 '•^'^ The Angel at the Gate Gelia Parkef Woolley GopiglitF_LaJ4_ COPYRIGHT DEPOSIR CELIA PARKER WOOLLEY The Angel at the Gate An Raster Fantasy PROLOGUE AND ONE ACT by CELIA PARKER WOOLLEY "What is excellent, As God lives, is permanent; Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain, Heart's love will meet thee again." Copyright 1919 by The Celia Parker WooUey Memorial Committee of the Chicago Woman's Club All rights of production and translation reserved \5'i m;.'; O^JID 52028 THE ANGEL AT THE GATE This drama is printed under the auspices of The Celia Parker Woolley Memorial Committee of the Chicago Woman's Club. It came to the committee through the courtesy of Mrs. Woolley's friend, Mrs. Melida Pappe, to whom it was given by Dr. Woolley after Mrs. Woolley's death. The play was read before the Chicago Woman's Club several years ago and was received with enthusiasm, and the committee feels assured that those v/ho heard its first recital will be repaid by a reading of it. The proceeds from the sale of the book will be given to the Frederick Douglass Center which was founded by Mrs. Woolley and to which she gave the last fourteen years of her life. Jessie E. Shears Carnovale, Chairman of The Celia Parker Woolley Memorial Committee of the Chicago Woman's Club. — 3 — Celia Parker WooUey 1848-1918 WHEN the voice of one from whom we have been accustomed to take counsel, direction, encouragement and stimulus is stilled, the natural impulse asserts itself to recapture and pre- serve in permanent form the fugitive written words called forth by one or another special occasion, or by the urgency for expression, seeking by this means to prolong an intimacy with the thought of a van^ ished presence. With this motive the accompanying Parable of The Angel at the Gate — is published. Immortal literature has been transmitted by use of parables; Dante thus embodies in his Divine Comedy, his philosophy, ethics and devout aspira- tion. St. John, the Divine, could find no other vehicle by which to convey the revelation given to him. He who spoke as none other, "without a par- able spoke not unto the multitude." Mrs. Woolley has chosen this form in which to phrase her pro- foundest convictions wreathed with beautiful im- agery ; perhaps it may not be for "him who runs to read" but the appeal to reflection is irresistible. Young people and young-hearted old people enjoy Mrs. Woolley's novels, for their understanding and sympathy with romance. An inquirer for one of these novels at the Public Library was met with the reply that the book was out to be rebound, an instance which illustrates the gift for speaking the common language of the human heart. THE ANGEL AT THE GATE Mrs. Woolley was as truly a minister of religion after she left the pulpit as while maintaining re- ligious services in the accustomed order. An idealist, she was none the less a pragmatist; what she ac- cepted as true in philosophy she was ready to apply to conduct; partly this was due to moral courage but it must also be recognized that in such of her endeavors as were a departure from custom she met with fullest recognition of purpose and co-operation in her family. Conscious of the loss which a com- munity sustains because of artificial, separating barriers, Mrs. Woolley used the hospitality of her home to promote social intercourse between those with common interests and purpose irrespective of difference of race. Perhaps none other today may be found to demonstrate as she did, her faith in the things that unite, her endeavor to overcome the things that separate human beings from mutual sympathy. Her personality, that indefinable quality which is inimitable may have been the chief factor in her achievements but if we who remain let the causes languish for which she labored we are not worthy to be called her friends. Mary H. Wilmarth. ^6 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE THE CHARACTERS In the Order of Their Appearance. JUDGE GRAHAM, of the Court of Domestic Re- lations. LENA OLSON, his housekeeper. THE ANGEL at the Gate. PAUL and his wife. EDWIN and LAURA. A KING and his rebellious subject. A CLERGYMAN and some of his church members. TWO PROFESSORS of the Higher Learning. A GROUP of mystical believers with their leader. CESAR and ANABEL. A GROUP of Newly-Transcended Souls. JIM. THE RECTOR.' BILL and NANCY. — 7 THE ANGEL AT THE GATE PROLOGUE. Time, Easter Eve. (Scene, Judge Graham's library, furnished in the homely hut comfortable style of the late-Vic- torian era. A large window at the back of the stage heavily draped zvith rich lace and damcLsk, a small table belozv bearing a pot of Easter lilies. A long, black walnut table in the center of the room covered with books and magazines. Luxu- riously cushioned chairs in walnut and leather. An open fireplace on the left flanked by tall bookcases with others on the opposite side of the room. An easy chair in front of the grate. Above on the mantle a cabinet photograph of a woman in early middle life, hair in pompadour and a face of high-bred repose and intellectual- ity. Above the picture droops a single Easter lily in a slender glass vase. A bronze plaque of a monk's head mounted on crimson velvet hangs opposite the fireplace.) (Enter from the right JUDGE GRAHAM car- rying a bag of pamphlets and papers and a zualk- ing stick. Tall, rather heavy figure with smooth face and iron -gray hair. He looks tired and somewhat depressed. Almost at the same mo- ment a zuoman enters from the left, LENA OLSON, an old member of the household zvho combines the functions of housekeeper, general — 9 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE factotum and a privileged friend. Dressed in dark skirt and white waist. She comes rapidly forzi^ard to assist the judge, taking his bag and stick and helping him to remove his overcoat.) LENA. You're late again, Sir, and you are all tired out. Why, your coat's wet. GRAHAM. Yes, a little. It's beginning to rain. LENA. Not very good weather for Easter. GRAHAM. Easter. So it is. It comes early this year. The weather-man promises nothing but rain and sleet. LENA. (Stoops to light the fire in the grate, then wheels the chair nearer the blaze.) Do sit down, Sir. (He leans heavily on the chair as he walks around it and sinks wearily into the seat.) You would walk, I suppose? GRAHAM. No; to-night I took a car, and hung on to a strap most of the time. That's harder than walking. LENA. And that new autymobile standin* in the g'rarge, doin' nothin'. GRAHAM. The auto doesn't need exercise as a horse would, and the doctor says I do. How long can I rest here, Lena, before dinner? LENA. A good hour, and longer if you want. Why not let — 10 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE me bring your dinner here? You're alone and all beat out. GRAHAM. (With a touch of fret fulness.) But I sha'n't be alone. Thompson and Dodge are coming. Didn't I telephone? LENA. No, but it don't matter. Some of them domestickers, I s'pose. Why can't they let you alone, out of court ? GRAHAM. These are not "domestickers." They want me to take the appellate, but, (In a weary tone.) I don't know — I don't know. Of course it's an honor — but I'm so tired. (Leans hack in his chair and closes his eyes.) LENA. Humph. Politicals. They ain't much better. No wonder you're tired, settin' in that stuffy courtroom all day, with all sorts of people and all sorts of smells. Quarrellin' all the time, marryin' and divorcin'. What's an Appellate? Never mind, I don't want to know. I want you to rest. (She brings a hassock for his feet and places a small cushion at the back of his head.) GRAHAM. How you do dislike the "domestickers," Lena. Marriage isn't always a failure. (He looks up at the photograph and sees the flower.) Did you put the lilv there? LENA. (Bozvs.) — 11 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE I know yourn wa'n't, nor hern. GRAHAM. How long is it, Lena, since she went away? LENA. Nine years next May. GRAHAM. We miss her about as much as the day she left us, don't we? (She draws her handkerchief from her pocket and wipes her eyes.) You are a good church-member, Lena. Where do you think she is? LENA. In heaven, of course. GRAHAM. What is she doing? LENA. Singin' and praisin' God, like the rest of 'em. GRAHAM. (In a slow, sleepy tone.) Um-m. She didn't have much of a voice when she was here. She liked books and pictures — and help- ing people best. LENA. There was a pair of you when it comes to helpin' people. There ain't any sick or poor people in heaven. GRAHAM. No — no ? I suppose not. I should think Edith would find it rather dull. How would you like a land- scape without shadows, bright staring daylight all the time with never a touch of cool, restful dark- ness, in which to sleep and dream — or not to dream ? — 12 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE LENA. I don't know what you mean, Sir. You ain't restin'. I'll go and see about dinner. (She is about to turn away when he bends for- zvard with a slight groan, pressing his hand to his heart and fumbling in his pocket. LENA anticipates him, leans over and draws out a small vial and pours two or three tablets into his trembling hand; he swallows them and leans back in his chair, breathing painfully. She looks down on him anxiously. In a few minutes he opens his eyes and looks at her with a reassuring smile.) GRAHAM. Don't be frightened, I'm all right now. LENA. Do go to bed, Sir, and let me send them men back home. You ain't fit to see company. GRAHAM. No-no. I'm better. I'm all right. . . . You needn't stay. (She turns slowly away.) When they come you may as well show them in here. LENA. (Wheels suddenly.) Indeed, I shall do no such thing. You've got to get some rest. 'Twon't hurt them politicals to set a spell. You stay right where you are until I come for you. (She turns off the light and goes out.) GRAHAM. (Looks up at the photograph zvith a whimsical smile.) — 13 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE Same old Lena. (He is restless, moves uneasily in his chair, closes his eyes and opens them, still talking to ■ the photograph.) I want to see you, Edith — I do want to see you. I can't think of a woman like you being dead — just crumbled into dust, or blown out like a candle. . Thompson and Dodge are coming — they want me to take the Appellate, but I don't seem to care much about it. I wish I could talk it over with you. I'd give a hundred Appellates for one of our old talks. Those old talks. We did love each other — we did suit. How close we were, body, mind and soul. I want to see you, dear. Can't you manage it — some way? (Falls into a light slumber — opens his eyes zvith a start and fixes them with an intent look on the photograph.) Why Edith. Is that you? You heard me? You have come — come for me? Now? (He puts his trembling hands on the arms of the chair and tries to rise, hut falls hack; makes another effort arid stands weakly on his feet, clutching the mantle for support, upsetting the vase which falls zvith the lily to the floor; he takes a feehle step or two to the chair and sinks into it, bending forward to pick up the flower. The pain seizes him again, he falls hack help- lessly, then sinks downzvard into a huddled heap. There are two or three shuddering breaths, then silence. One hand hangs over the arm of the chair, the fingers clasping the lily.) Curtain. — 14 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE THE PLAY Time, Easter Morn. Scene. A long, low parapet, or etnbankment of clouds, purple and blwe, with wide, starry spaces be- yond. The scene is bathed in a mild radiance whose source is unseen. From time to time it is illumined with a more brilliant light which arouses deep emotion in those who see it and is the subject of eager controversy. The main en- trance through which nezvcomers appear is on the upper right, other openings are, one, on the lower right, two on the left. A low bench of antique pattern stands in the middle of the stage. An organ is pealing on the outside, and voices are heard singing an Easter anthem. THE ANGEL at the Gate stands on the lozver left looking out upon the singers and joining his voice to theirs. He is dressed in a monk's cos- tume with flowing robe and a hood with purple lining. His features are of Dantesque pattern and Italian coloring. His expression varies ac- cording to his mood; is grave, sometimes somber, or more genial, at times humorous. He has a brilliant smile which lights up his dark countenance with a pleasant effect. Behind him, near the parapet as yet unnoticed, stands JUDGE GRAHAM, looking much the same as in his first appearance, but with every trace of weariness and depression removed. He is evi- dently perplexed and full of wonder over his new surroundings, but his face is untroubled. An Easter lily hangs from the breast of his coat. -IS — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE ANGEL. (Turns slowly as the music ceases, sees the new arrival and moves quickly to him, his hand ex- tended.) I beg your pardon. I am ashamed to be found lagging at my post. You have just come among us ? GRAHAM. Yes. Edith brought me. (Spoken with extreme simplicity and trust.) ANGEL. (Bends an examining glance upon him.) Then, I take it, you know where you are? GRAHAM. I am wondering. Everything is changed. I was never in a place like this before. A short time ago I was sitting in my library, resting before dinner. I was very tired. My body felt like lead. Now I feel so light, so free — as if I were young again. Either I have "passed on" as we say, entering sud- denly upon "another state,'* — died, you know — or I am simply dreaming. Only . . . (With a touch of the old weariness.) if I am dreaming I ought to waken soon. Thompson and Dodge were coming. There was some political business . ANGEL. And, if it were not a dream — if it were to prove the plainest, most complete reality you ever faced . . . GRAHAM. Ah-h. It is true then. I am dead. I knew it would come suddenly. . . . So — it is all over with. — 16 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE ANGEL. It is a relief to see you take it so quietly. You seem neither sorry nor afraid. GRAHAM. Is there anything to be afraid of? (The ANGEL smiles and shakes his head slowly.) And how could I be sorry when I am with Edith again? She told me to remain here a while; she said you would tell me what to do next. ANGEL. When I have learned it myself. GRAHAM. (In surprise.) Do you not know Edith? ANGEL. (Amused.) I do not recall her just now. There are a good many of us, you know. (Extends his hand again.) You are very welcome. (With a flashing smile.) Make yourself at home. GRAHAM. (After a short pause in which he has been mov- ing about observing his new surroundings.) You are the warden — or keeper of this place ? You see I speak in the old terms. ANGEL. There is no warden in the usual sense. The place is open to all who come. But this is not so much a place as a state of being. GRAHAM. I understand — that is, I do not understand in the -17 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE least, but they were beginning to teach that down below. ANGEL. There is plenty of time. Naturally, you expected someone to meet you. (With a quizzical look.) Perhaps you expected some sort of challenge, a quo warranto? GRAHAM. No; we were not indoctrinated in the old views, Edith and I. Some pressing duty called her away, doubtlessly. (In a wistful tone.) ANGEL. (Who is a little embarrassed over this recur- rence of conjugal feeling, which he cannot he expected to understand — drily.) Some "higher duty" perhaps. I am told that the women on earth are fast learning to substitute such for the old tasks which Nature designed them to perform. The fashion is spreading — upwards. GRAHAM. (Smiling.) The world moves fast. Great changes are in prog- ress. ANGEL. No doubt. The earth still makes but one revolu- tion in the twenty-four hours, I suppose? It was an ambitious little planet when I lived upon it. GRAHAM. (Regards him tuith new interest.) That was a long time ago I infer? ANGEL. Only five hundred years. — 18 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE GRAHAM. Five hundred years. . . . And you are here — the gatekeeper? I beg your pardon. ANGEL. We share alike here in a wide variety of tasks. (Paces hack and forth zvith a long, slow stride, speaking in a reminiscent tone.) I was a drubbing monk — and a reformer — "Fa- natic" — ''Heretic" — men called me. A pestiferous fellow whose hand and voice were forever raised against the prevailing powers in church and state. . . . And with reason, (Drawing himself up proudly.) with much reason. (He stands a short time in silent, stern medi- tation, then breaks info a shame-faced laugh.) You see how our little earthly vanities cling to us still. GRAHAM. (Regards him thong Jit fully.) You were a monk — a reforming monk — in the Mid- dle Ages. . . . ANGEL. Aye. How they feared and hated me, those corrupt old rulers in Florence. Even the good brothers of San Marco . . . GRAHAM. (Excitedly.) Florence . . . San Marco . . . Now I know. I have been studying your face. Your portrait has hung for years in my library. You are — ANGEL. (Lays his finger on hu lip.) — 19 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE Enough of this; but 1 admit I am not sorry you have guessed. GRAHAM. (Looks at him with wondering admiration.) They — they burned you at the stake. ANGEL. So they did — so they did. But you see, like the famous bird of ancient lore, I have risen from my ashes. GRAHAM. And you are here — in this place of humble service ? ANGEL. Do not let that disturb you. St. Peter's office is not so humble. Stay by me for the present. (His eye is caught by some object outside.) Here comes a member of one of our heavenly choirs. I call him my Bright Spirit. A very humble figure on earth. (Turning to GRAHAM.^ Among all who are here, the members of the ce- lestial choirs have attained the highest state of beatitude, of spiritual grace and perfection, which but for the quick response they make to every call of duty is purely impersonal — a state of almost absolute selflessness. GRAHAM. (Hesitatingly.) I think I should not care for that. It is too much like the doctrine of Nirvana. ANGEL. (Smiling.) No. You and I belong to a more active type. We think rather well of our personalities. (The place is newly lighted by the sivift, noise- — 20 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE less entrance of PAUL ; a young man of beam- ing but modest looks, dressed in a Fra Angelico garb, and carrying a small, stringed instrument.) Ah, my brother, it is you. , Something has hap- pened. Can I serve you? PAUL. Something told me my wife was coming. I came to meet her. She may be frightened. ANGEL. (Turns and looks through the entrance.) She is here now. WOMAN. (Enters. She gazes froimiingly and a little zuildly about her. She does not seem afraid and looks at the ANGEL reproachfully.) Are you St. Peter? ANGEL. (With a lively smile.) St. Peter is taking his after-dinner nap. I am his temporary substitute. WOMAN. (Regards him ivith suspicion.) I thought something was wrong. I found the door wide open. Anybody can come in. ANGEL. Yes, anyone can come in. The door is always open. WOMAN. That is very strange. (Frightened by a sudden thought.) Is this not heaven? I have not come to the wrong place? ANGEL. This is heaven to those who can so realize it — and help to make it such. — 21 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE WOMAN. (Heeds him slightly and speaks in a peevish tone.) Of course I know that. I have died. I did not want to die. Nobody wants to die. Not that I was afraid. I have always been a religious woman. (She has not discovered her husband, whose presence is zvithheld from her. He has made several attempts to place himself at her side but is stayed by some invisible force, and stands looking at her troubled face.) ANGEL. Is there no one here whom you know — whom you would like to see? WOMAN. My husband died three years ago. (In a sharper and higher key.) Why does he not come to meet me? Does he not know? Why does not someone tell him? (Sees the Bright Spirit. Speaks in a frightened tone.) Who is that? ANGEL. That is one of our heavenly choristers. On earth, simply a good man, generally overlooked; faithful in little things, of clean upright life and cheerful spirit. WOMAN. My husband was something like that. But, (Complainingly.) he could never get on in the world. I could not have things, like other women. (She looks at him more closely, but shrinkingly.) — 22 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE He is very beautiful. He must be of very high station. ANGEL. We know nothing of stations here, sister. Do you not think you would know your husband if you were to see him? WOMAN. Know my husband ! Of course I should know him. ANGEL. Strange transformations are sometimes wrought in the change called death. Those who lived in closest ties may pass each other by unknowing; while others, strangers before, may greet each other like old friends and heart's kin, recognizing each other, perhaps, even across the bridge of ages. (He looks at GRAHAM with a smile, who flushes zvith pleasure.) WOMAN. I should know Paul well enough. Where is he? Why does he not come to help me? ANGEL. Patience. Someone will help you. This man will go with you if you wish. (Indicating PAUL.j WOMAN. (Shrinks back.) No — no ; I will go by myself. ANGEL. This way then, sister. (He conducts her to an opposite exit where she disappears.) PAUL. (Looks at the ANGEL in distress.) — 23 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE Why would she not let me go with her ? Why did she not know me? ANGEL. Why indeed? ''He that hath eyes, let him see." Do not be troubled, she will find friends. (Laying his hands affectionately on tJie young man's shoulders.) And how is it with you, my loved songster? PAUL. (With a radiant smile.) I am very happy. I have so much to learn. I was so weak and ignorant before, and now I am so happy. (His face falls.) But I have no right to be happy while she is lonely and sad. ANGEL. Go your ways, my brother, go your ways. Be happy. There are seasons when we can help, and there are others when we must refrain from help- ing. Farewell. (Exit PAUL, the ANGEL looking after him zvith loving interest.) GRAHAM. That was a peculiar case. (A humorous smile lights his face.) I did not expect to find another Court of Domestic Relations up here. ANGEL. Is that the latest name for it? GRAHAM. The latest. You would be interested in our new methods in judicature. Our courts are daily grow- ing less legal than humane. — 24 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE ANGEL. (Is absorbed in his own thoughts, not altogether pleasant.) That is very interesting. Some day you must tell me all about it. . . . (He stands a fezv minutes in frozuning reflec- tion, then breaks out impetuously.) I like not these domestic tangles. . . . They are not for my unwinding. Our friend, Paul, should also have been born in the fifteenth century. He belongs to the monastic order, not to the long array of disappointed husbands. ... I am a celibate. I wear the old habit. (Looking dozvn on his gozvn and raising the rosary to his lips.) And the tonsure. (Touching his hood.) The brain works underneath with no sense of re- striction. I am celibate still. ... I should not say it — but I do not like women. When I am called upon to perform any needful office for them, I do as well as I can — that is, not well. (Walks back and forth zvith a nervous stride.) GRAHAM. (Much aroused.) You had dealings with many women in your church in Florence. You made them burn their finery. ANGEL. Such methods are outgrown here. (Continues to move about, speaking.) There was one woman who was different from the others. She was the only woman who ever beat me in argument. — 25 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE GRAHAM. That was annoying, naturally. ANGEL. She was of pagan birth and training, very learned — for a woman. She had a rich nature. To the best that was in the unsanctified culture of the ancient world she added Christian meekness and patience. GRAHAM. My Edith is like that. ANGEL. (Summons a patient look.) But there came a time when my young disciple, as I hoped to make her, was not so patient. She came to plead with me to save the life of a near relative. He was a good man, but he was on the wrong side. The times were troublesome. Good men were sac- rificed on both sides. She could see only the per- sonal side of the question — like a woman. Bitter words passed between us. We parted. I lost a valuable friend and ally — from an unexpected source. GRAHAM. (After a brief pause.) Why do you sav she beat you in argument? ANGEL. (With a deprecating gesture.) Probably because I was unable to convince her with mine. GRAHAM. Edith would say that men train women to the per- sonal view, then blame them for employing it. ANGEL. (Rather brusquely.) — 26 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE Your superior woman can always find a reply. GRAHAM. (Good-humoredly.) Certainly. What is superiority for? ANGEL. Let us end these retrospects. What earthlings we are still. About this new court you spoke of . . . What did you call it ? GRAHAM. There are many branches. Mine was the Court of Domestic Relations. ANGEL. Very good. You are just the man I need. (Takes his arm and leads him to the lozver left exit.) Do you see that man with the melancholy counte- nance walking by the river ? (Pointing.) He came a few days ago and has spent all his time in a fruitless search for his wife. She, it seems, has been here a number of years. He has looked for her far and near, and he has called her by name — but — (Looking meaningly at GRAHAM.j he gets no reply. (With slow emphasis.) And he will not understand. GRAHAM. I am not sure I do either. Do you mean that she knows he is here — that she does not wish to see him? ANGEL. Question him yourself. See what you can do for him. I turn the case over to you. — 27- THE ANGEL AT THE GATE GRAHAM. To me ! But I am an entire stranger here. I know nothing of your laws or methods. ANGEL. You have brought your own stock of knowledge and experiences with you. The case is in your line. . . . He is coming this way. EDWIN. (Enters. He is a man in early middle life, of pleasing looks and a general air of well-being, except for the expression of sadness which clouds Jiis countenance-) ANGEL. (Extends his hand.) Ah, my friend, we meet again, and (With an examining look.) you are still unhappy. I want you to meet a new friend of mine. He has just come among us, with (banteringly) all the latest earthly knowledge upon him. Talk to him freely, he can help you better than I can. (He moves away. EDWIN reaches out his hand beseechingly. GRAHAM looks after him helplessly. He goes to the farther end of the parapet and looks out. Soon he draivs his office from the inner folds of his robe and begins to read.) GRAHAM. (Turns to the young man ivith a rueful smile.) This is embarrassing to both of us, and a disap- pointment, I know, to you ; but I suppose we must obey. Shall we sit? (He motions to the bench and seats himself.) — 28 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE EDWIN. (Reluctantly places himself at his side.) I fear I have wearied him. GRAHAM. I am sorry to learn that you are in trouble. EDWIN. (Hesitatingly.) I am so confused — and hurt. I do not understand. I have looked for her unceasingly . . . and I have called her, but she does not answer, she does not come. I thought she would be the first to meet me. GRAHAM. You are speaking of your wife? EDWIN. Naturally. GRAHAM. You loved her verv much ? EDWIN. (Rather coldly.) My wife, I said. GRAHAM. And — and she loved you ? (EDWIN turns a questioning and displeased look upon him.) Pardon me, but there are cases, as you must know, where the tie is stronger on one side, and — and contains more of the elements of permanence. EDWIN. (With a faint, ironic smile.) You put it very diplomatically. GRAHAM. Forgive my plain speaking. I am a newcomer and not competent to teach anyone. I am sure though, — 29 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE that there is one law here and everywhere. One law and one condition. The law is Truth, the con- dition, Freedom. EDWIN. That is rather abstract. GRAHAM. I mean only that most people live in blind, wilful delusion of some kind. We were afraid of truth in the old life, and often took license for freedom. But here both principles should be understood. Perfect Candor, Mutual Trust, these must be the rules of human intercourse in a place like this. We are human still, thank God. Former ties still bind us, or are relinquished. EDWIN. (Turns quickly.) Are you one of those who think liglitly of the mar- riage bond? GRAHAM. Not at all, but . . . EDWIN. Do you mean that she does not wish to see me, that I shall not find her? GRAHAM. I cannot tell, but may we not infer? EDWIN. Then why does she not tell me so? GRAHAM. So she should. (Edwin makes a motion to rise, but GRAHAM lays a hand gently on Jiis arm.) Tell me, what was the nature of the tie between you? You — you had like tastes, opinions, inter- ests? — 30 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE EDWIN. (Embarrassed.) Laura was a very accomplished woman, above me in culture — books, pictures — that sort of thing. GRAHAM. And in disposition — character? EDWIN. A very strong character. GRAHAM. Strong — yes. But was she just, reasonable, con- siderate? Many "superior" women are not that. EDWIN. (Hesitatingly.) Laura was much admired — a little spoiled, per- haps; and she never liked to face anything disa- greeable. GRAHAM. Ah-h. What is called ''culture" often fails in true understanding, and moral courage. (EDWIN looks thoughtful.) And your contribution to the union ? EDWIN. Very little. I could only give her money. I had plenty of that. GRAHAM. (Musingly.) Money is useful — down there, the great domestic lubricator. My work was among the unhappily- mated, and the economic factor was always upper- most. EDWIN. (After a pause.) Tell me. Sir, what I ought to do. Much as I love her, I would not keep her against her will. — 31 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE GRAHAM. (Throzving an arm about his shoulder.) Now we are reaching a basis of settlement. You say you have called her — call her again. (Both men rise.) EDWIN. (Holds out trembling hands and calls entreat- ingly.) Laura. GRAHAM. (Looking into the distance, speaks, not loudly but in a voice that has a note of command.) If you hear him, you should reply. (Enter from the lower left, LAURA. She has a refined countenance which zvears a look of con- scious superiority. She looks at GRAHAM with a displeased face.) EDWIN. (Springing forzi'ard.) Laura — Laura. At last you have come. LAURA. (Carelessly.) Is that you, Ned ? Did you want me ? EDWIN. Want you? O, Laura — I have looked for you so long. I have been so lonely without you all these years. I thought — I hoped. . . . LAURA. I am sorry — but things are not always easy here. GRAHAM. (Comes nearer; he and LAURA look long and steadily at each other. EDWIN has moved away and stands at a distafice, his back turned, his head bent.) — 32 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE Why do vou not tell him the truth? LAURA. (Pettishly.) I do not wish to hurt him. GRAHAM. You are hurting him, and do you not see how this long habit of evasion and subterfuge is hurting you? Indecision is sometimes the worst of sins. He is a generous man, he desires your happiness more than his own. LAURA. (Surprised at this praise of one whom she aliuays regarded lightly, turns and looks at her husband, then hack at GRAHAM. Her face clouds.) No^ — I cannot. I should think he would see for himself. "Until death do us part." Why, then does death not part? GRAHAM. Because the rule of action lies within. You are behaving weakly, dishonestly. (Takes her hand and speaks more gently.) Try the other way, my sister. It will make, you both happier. LAURA. (Hesitates and wavers, then pushes the hand away.) No— I cannot. It is too painful. (She turns to depart but stops at the exit and looks back.) Are you coming, Ned? EDWIN. (Wheels and steps foulards her, stops and looks at her uncertainly.) — ^Z — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE Do you wish me to come, Laura? LAURA. (Impatiently.) Of course; why not? EDWIN. (After a moment's manful struggle with him- self.) No, Laura — not no(w. Don't bother about me. Goodbye. (He steps quickly to her, seizes her hands and looks at her searchingly, then takes her face between his palms, bends and kisses her on the^ forehead.) Why did you not tell me yourself, dear? I hope you will be very happy. {He releases her. She looks at him with a variety of feelings flitting over her face, then turns swiftly and goes out. EDWIN stands a moment with his face dropped in his hands, then raises it with a new look of decision.) ANGEL. (Comes forward.) That was well done, brothers, both. (Gives a hand to each.) (To GRAHAM.) Did I not say you could help me? (To EDWIN.) Do not be downcast. Good things are awaiting you. Stay with us for the present. (The three stand in thoughtful silence for a space.) (Faltering footsteps are heard outside. The ANGEL turns toward the entrance.) — 34 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE What have we here? Something quite out of the common. (He motions and the three retire to distant parts of the stage.) (Enter the KING, a man in middle life, with uncertain step and bewildered air. He is of slight stature hut noble hearing, handsomely dressed in afternoon costume with several deco- rations on his breast. He sees no one at first and looks about him confusedly, passing his hand across his brow. There is a sound of hur- rying feet outside and a YOUNG !^IAN enters throwing himself at the other's feet. He is pale, unkempt and poorly dressed, and shozvs signs of some fearful struggle through which he has just passed.) YOUNG MAN. Sire — Sire — forgive me, Sire. (The other looks down on him wonderingh.) KING. Forgive vou? What have I to forgive? YOUNG MAN. Do you not know me, Sire? Do you not know what has happened? It was I, Sire, who . . . (The ANGEL has drawn near and lays a hand on his shoulder. The KING first looks from one to the other, then to the ANGEL.) KING. I don't know what he means. ... I don't know where I am. Everything is changed. ANGEL. (Looks at him solemnly.) Even as it was spoken: "In the twinkling of an eye." — 35 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE (The other looks startled hut still does not com- prehend.) Do not be alarmed. All is well with you — much better than you can divine. YOUNG MAN. (Still on his knees, holds up his hands implor- ingly.) Sire — Sire. . . ANGEL. (Again checks him.) Hush. Do you not see that you only distress him? Calm yourself. KING. (To the ANGEL.) This young man seems to be in deep trouble. . . he seems to think that he has injured me, but I never saw him. before. YOUNG MAN. O, Sire, does not your Majesty remember . . . (The ANGEL again checks him.) KING. (Raises his hand to his head with a troubled look.) Majesty? . . , ANGEL. Patience. Everything will come right soon. (A short silence. GRAHAM aitd EDWIN have drazvn near and are looking on this strange scene with intense interest.) Perhaps you were a great ruler somewhere — ^before you came here. KING. (Deeply perplexed.) Perhaps I was . . . Yes, I think I was — but — 36 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE I did not care for it ... I was not equal to it . . . {Suddenly, after he has looked about him.) What place is this? What has happened? ANGEL. In a moment. Have you no recollection how you came here? What is the last thing you remember? KING. (Reflecting a space, speaking slowly and at in- tervals.) I have a dim remembrance of a fete-day . . . There had been a great battle. We were the victors . . . (Wearily.) 1 do not remember what the battle was about . . . ANGEL. That is of no consequence. KING. We were on our way to the cathedral to give God thanks . . . (YOUNG MAN still on his knees groans and hides his face.) The streets were full of people . . . banners floating and bands playing ... I was in a carriage . . . and there were faces — faces everywhere . . . Some of them looked at me kindly — others with scowling hatred . . . YOUNG MAN. O, my God. KING. (Looks down on him.) ANGEL. Go on, please. You were sitting in a carriage. — 37- THE ANGEL AT THE GATE Crowds of people were following you, shouting and singing . . . Then something happened. KING. I don't know what it was. Something struck me, I think. (Pressing his hand to his heart.) The air was full of angry cries . . . Every- thing was in confusion . . . Then darkness . . . When I came to myself — I was here. (Looks around him at the three regarding him with sympathetic faces.) What is it? What is it? A dream? I will not waken? I will not have to go back to all that . . . the dull routine . . . the processions and the drills . . . the festivals and pageants? And always wherever I went — that crowd of peo- ple. Most of them, I knew, were hungry and very poor — but I could do nothing for them. I could never get near them . . . They were kept back by policemen with clubs — trampled on sometimes — to make room for me — for me. (His voice rises to a painful cry. Recovers him- self, his figure straightens, a look of clearer re- membrance sweeps over his face.) Yes, — I remember now. I was a king — emperor, something like that. (Boyishly.) But I never liked it. I could never do as I wished . . . Someone always stood in the way — between me and the people ... I will not have to go back? (Looking anxiously at the ANGEL.) — 38 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE ANGEL. Be comforted. You have finished the old life. This is the New Life. (To the YOUNG MAN who is crouching at the feet of the KING sobbing.) Quiet, brother. KING. (Looking dozvfi on him.) Why is he so unhappy? No — no. Do not kneel to me — or kiss my hand. I hope no one will ever kneel to me again or kiss my hand. ANGEL. Have no fears, brother. Here you are no greater than any other freed and living soul — and no less. (To the YOUNG MAN.) Rise up. (The YOUNG MAN stands up; he looks the extreme of misery.) Now speak. Tell us what you know of this matter. YOUNG MAN. (Speaks slowly, 'with labored breath.) I was horribly mistaken ... I thought I was doing a great and noble deed . . . They said it was the only way. We cast lots ... I hated the task, but I had sworn . . . And if I could help to free the people — to give them bread . . . When I saw him in the carriage I knew it was all a dreadful blunder and mistake. I said to myself, this is not a bad man. Killing him won't help us. (The KING looks at him more attentively.) I felt I could never do it ... I aimed and fired. I saw him fall forward, his head on his breast . . . Then they seized me, a hundred — 39 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE hands, fierce, tigerish — pulling, striking, tearing . . . I knew nothing until I found myself struggling in the void . . . When I emerged, (Deeply agitated, his voice rising.) the first one I saw was him — him — (Pointing with a trembling hand.) the man I had . . . (Groius suddenly quiet, his arms hang loosely at his side, he looks at the KING.) Sire, I am your murderer. KING. (Looks at him long and wonderingly, with no hint of resentment. Then a faint, relieved smile breaks over his face. He takes the YOUNG MAN'S hand.) You are my liberator. YOUNG MAN. (Breaks into sobs.) Sire, — I . . . But it was the wrong way. ANGEL. Yes, it was the wrong way. KING. (Anxiously.) You will not punish him? ANGEL. We know no punishment here except that which lies in growing pains — the soul's perception of its own wrong-doing. KING. (Eagerly.) And he may go with me? We may remain to- gether ? (The ANGEL looks at him zvith extreme kind- ness.) — 40 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE YOUNG MAN. (Brokenly.) I am not worthy. ANGEL. Make yourself worthy. Put aside fruitless sor- row. Look before you, not behind. (The KING takes the YOUNG MAN'S arm and looks at him affectionately.) Peace and happiness attend you both, my brothers. You can learn more from each other than anyone else can teach you. KING. (To his companion.) Come, let us go. There must be so much to see, so much to learn. (Exit the tzi'o.) ANGEL. (Looks after him zvith a musing smile, then turns to GRAHAM.) Poor little kinglet. GRAHAM. One born to reign, but not to rule. EDWIN. I should like to know more of that young fellow ; there's good stuff in him. (A short silence ensues, all three lost in reflec- tion. A brilliant but soft light appears, plays carelessly about them a fezv minutes and dies away. GRAHAM and EDWIN stand looking upwards at it and do not notice the ANGEL who with a rapt look on his face raises his hands in prayer and, lowering them, makes the sign of the cross.) What light is that? I have seen it before. — 41 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE ANGEL. How does it affect you? EDWIN. Very pleasantly. There is something so personal about it, like the touch or near presence of a loved friend. ANGEL. You describe it very well. There are many theories about it. You will have to grow into your own feelings about it — about its worth and meaning. (Enter a small group led by a young man in clerical garb. They are excited, look at each other with kindling faces and speak in eager tones.) Did you see it? . . . It went this way . . . No, this ... It was so beautiful . . . O, what is it? LEADER. It was ''the light which lighteth every man who Cometh into the world." This way — this way. We shall see Him very soon now. (Exit with the others.) GRAHAM. (To the ANGEL.) Him.? See Him? Do they mean . . . (Enter two PROFESSORS of the Higher Learning, dressed in cap and gown, discussing the same topic, from a modern point of view.) FIRST PROFESSOR. I incline strongly to the views of Strauss and Renan. The story is a very beautiful one and very suggestive — it has its uses; but for the most part it is purely mythical, built on oral tradition, and fed by that love of the marvelous which lies at the _42 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE bottom of all religious beliefs, — though not with- out its uses for the common people. SECOND PROFESSOR. I have little interest in the controversy. I am not given to mere speculation on any theme. My mind is of the order which requires demonstration. I am a scientist. The material world offers the most instructive field of study, even in this state of being. FIRST PROFESSOR. Um-m-m. I should not fully agree with you there. The mind has various sources of information. Fable, myth, tradition — they play their part . . . (They step towards the exit.) ANGEL. (Has been regarding them earnestly and with a clouded brow, he stands with folded arms and speaks in smothered tones of ivounded feeling and rebuke.) He is the living Lord of all, God's vice-gerent on earth and in Heaven. "Oral tradition !" ''A myth !" "No doubt but ye are the people, and wisdom shall die with you." (The two thus addressed turn at the sound of his voice, and ivhen he has finished, look at each other ivith abashed faces and are about to pass out, when the ANGEL, his tone and manner wholly changed, steps nearer and speaks to them in humble, entreating tone.) Brothers, forgive me, I should not have spoken like that. I forgot myself. As though anger and scorn helped any in a discussion like this one . . . I humbly beg your pardon . . . (Turning away.) I am so slow to learn — so slow to learn. — 43 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE FIRST PROFESSOR. There is nothing to forgive. You but spoke your mind, as we have done, rather crudely, I have no doubt. SECOND PROFESSOR. If we would limit speech to subjects we fully under- stand . . . (The three break into smiles, and the tivo de- part. The ANGEL wraps his arms in his long sleeves, and stands in painful thought. GRA- HAM and EDWIN look at him and at each other with wondering faces.) (Enter another group led by a young woman with dreamy countenance, and dressed in flow- ing draperies. Her follozifers are women, all but tivo — an old man with streaming gray hair and beard, the other young and handsome.) LEADER. It is a symbol, a beautiful symbol. Everything is symbolic, rightly understood. We ourselves are but symbols, signs, you know, mere reflections sent forth from the great supernal Source of Things. (Members of the group, speaking in turn.) I know ... I understand, only I cannot ex- press it as well as our dear leader does ... It is so wonderful . . . And so beautiful — And so elevating. YOUNG GIRL. (With a little pout.) I do not understand. LEADER. O, but you will, my dear, you must. A symbol is but the outward form of the . . . the thing symbolized; an emblem of something which our — 44 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE vision is still too gross and carnal to view in its native essence. DEVOUT DISCIPLE. O, yes — essence. That makes it quite clear. LEADER. All great truths come by indirection. We are noth- ing in ourselves. Keep that always in mind. We are but waves on the sea, beams from an eternal Sun — reflections of the All-True, the All-Good. YOUNG GIRL. But I do not want to be just a reflection — a wave on the sea. I want to be myself. I always did enjoy being myself when I was alive. YOUNG MAN. (Admiringly.) I am sure that is all anyone could ask of you now. LEADER. (Looks at him with mild reproof.) That is the disease of personality, my dear. Pray to be rid of such tempting thoughts. Try to merge yourself ... DEVOUT DISCIPLE. O, yes — to merge. LEADER. Be content to be a passing influence, an unseen good. There is something very shallow and pal- pable (With a little shudder.) in the thought of a distinct entity. YOUNG MAN. But you are one of the most distinct — and pleas- ing — entities I have ever met. sister. LEADER. You mean kindly, brother, but I am nothing in my- -45 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE self. I am only an instrument, a message — I hope — from the Infinite Mind . . . Our Quiet Hour draws near. Let us seek some retired spot where we can spend it undisturbed and, accord- ing to our custom, separately. (They pass out, the OLD MAN lingering zvith halting steps, his lips moving, turns and speaks in quavering tones to the YOUNG MAN and GIRL behind.) OLD MAN. Our sister is very eloquent and highly gifted, but she is still very young. I sat under the teachings of the great prophet and leader . . . (A member of the group re-enters, looking for him; she takes his arm, pats it affectionately and leads him away.) YOUNG MAN. Why must our Quiet Hour be spent — separately? YOUNG GIRL. (Shyly.) Perhaps because, otherwise, it might not be a quiet hour. YOUNG MAN. I would keep perfectly still if you wished it. It would be enough simply to look at you. YOUNG GIRL. (Looks a little alarmed and hastens her steps.) I fear our leader thinks me rather flippant. This is such a beautiful place, it seems a pity not to take it as it is, and enjoy it — just as we are. Don't you think so? (They smile into each other's eyes and pass out, hand in hand.) ANGEL. (With a perplexed look at GRAHAM.) — 46 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE This is something altogether beyond me. GRAHAM. (Smiling.) One of the orders of our twentieth-century mystics. A new movement, but already divided into many sects, differing by a hair's breadth in doctrine, but agreeing in one main belief, interpreting everything in terms of pure spirit — rather difficult, you know while one is still in the flesh. ANGEL. (With a sigh.) Difficult enough here. GRAHAM. Excellent people, all of them, but as fixed, each in their particular dogma as any of your old theo- logians. Will the human mind ever free itself from dogma? ANGEL. Dogma is not necessarily an evil; it is an intel- lectual device in the search for truth. (GRAHAM smiles.) But a truce to theology. Here come some old friends of mine. (Enter CESAR and ANABEL, a colored pair of the best old plantation type. They are dressed in working clothes, clean and neat. The man is older and of darker tint than the zvoman. They speak in a modified dialect, in the soft, slow tones of the South. The ANGEL meets them with extended hands.) Ah, Cesar, here you are again, and Anabel. How are you both? CESAR. Fusrate, boss, fusrate. Me an' Anabel's ben havin' — 47 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE de best kin* 'o time, jes walkin' roun' an' seein' things. This suttinly is de mos' scrumptious kentry I ever did see. There's jes one thing Anabel keeps frettin' 'bout. I tell her it's ongrateful. ANGEL. (Looking at ANABEL.) What is it Anabel? ANABEL. I ain' frettin' — not really, an' I ain' ongrateful. It's so pretty here an' everybody's so kin'. But O, (Clasping her hands and looking at the ANGEL longingly.) I do want to see — Him. ANGEL. (Bozifs his head imderstandingly and stands silent for a time.) To see Him. Many are seeking Him, but you re- member what your Bible says ; "Many seek but few shall find." ANABEL. (Hanging her head.) I know I am not worthy. ANGEL. (Places a hand on her shoulder.) It is not that. Do not be troubled about that. (To CESAR.) And you, Cesar, you feel as Anabel does I sup pose ? CESAR. (Embarrassed.) Well, you see, boss, I ain' nevah be'n as 'ligious's Anabel. I had to wuk mighty hard to pay for de house an' to keep my job. 'Pears lak I nevah wuz much afraid of de debbil. An' dem pahsons — dey — 48 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE do tek up a heap o' yo' time. So, I jes natcherly let Anabel an' de chillun go to chu'ch, an' I stayed home to smoke an' weed de gyarden. (The ANGEL shakes his head in mock gravity, GRAHAM and EDWIN laugh.) ANGEL. (To ANABEL.) Where do you expect to find — Him, Anabel? ANABEL. (Timidly.) Didn' He say He would be a setting on de right han'? CESAR. Now I tell Anabel big words like dem jes scar' me stiff. I don' want to seem onreverent, boss, but there's jes one pusson I want to see in dis yer' place. Seems lak I can't settle down or do nothin' 'til I do see him. ANGEL. And who is that, Cesar? CESAR. Massa Linkum. EDWIN. Good for you, Cesar. CESAR. You see, boss — p'raps you don' 'member — you's be'n here a long time, I spec — it wuz Massa Lin- kum gib us our freedom. ANABEL. (Softly,) Jesus freed us first. CESAR. Dass all right, honey, I ain' sayin' nothin' 'gains' dat. But dat wuz difrunt. — 49 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE ANGEL. Well, Cesar, I am afraid you are a rather danger- ous character. You are a free-thinker and you are not afraid of the devil. But it is time you brought your wanderings to an end. Do you see that pile of logs over there? (Pointing outwards.) That's a pretty building spot under the trees, by the river. Why not build a little home for you and Anabel ? ANABEL. (Clasping her hands:) A little home, all our own! Jes' think, honey. CESAR. (Showing similar delight.) Dis suah is de greates' place for s'prises. (The two step tozuards the exit. CESAR turns.) But I ain' got no tools. ANGEL. You will find everything you need. What a con- firmed skeptic you are, Cesar. Run along. You ought to finish the work by sunset. Perhaps some- one will come along and help you. (Exit both with happy faces, singing outside. in low, sweet voices, ''Steal Azmy, Steal Azvay, Steal Azvay to Jesus.'') GRAHAM. (To ANGEL.) You did not take Cesar's heresies very seriously, yet you held a lively belief in the devil at one time yourself. ANGEL. I did indeed. The world divided between God and Satan — with the odds on Satan's side. — 50 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE GRAHAM. (Musingly, walking back and forth.) What ages of human wrong and suffering have been built upon that fundamental and wicked lie. . . . The problem of good and evil — I suppose it does not exist here. I have seen sorrow here — (Glancing at EDWIN.) And some human weaknesses, but downright evil — sin — crime ... ANGEL. You speak in the terms of the public administrator. It was your office to weigh evidence and pronounce the verdict, but you did not always relish your task. You soon learned that evidence obscures as often as it reveals the truth; and the fines and penalties which you imposed often made you feel more guilty than the worst offender who ever stood before you. GRAHAM. (Surprised.) How could you possibly know that? ANGEL. I know human nature ; I have learned to trust it more than I once did. There are grades and dif- ferences here . . . CESAR. (Re-enters, running in breathlessly.) I seen him — I seen him — Massa Linkum, his berrv self— (ANABEL enters, remaining near the entrance and looking at her husband anxiously.) ANGEL. Tell us about it, Cesar. CESAR. Ise a tellin' ye. I seen him. I wuz a fetchin' de — 51 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE logs; pretty soon a man cum along — jes lak you said. He had on a pair of old jeans, and one gallus hangin' down. Jerusha! You oughta seen de way he han'l dem logs. "Dere, Cesar," he say, *'dass a good start." I look up an' dere he wuz — Massa Linkum. He laff. "Howdy, Cesar," he say, **it tek yo' a long time to know yo' fr'en's." Then, Whish! — he wuz gone. I hear him laffin. "It tek yo' a long time to know yo' fr'en's." ANABEL. (Has drawn near and looks at him solicitously.) I reckon, honey, youse ben wukkin too hard in de sun. CESAR. (Draws himself up and looks at her reproach- fully.) Don' ye talk to me like dat, Anabel. I tell ye, I seen him. (He walks away with an injured air.) ANGEL. (To ANABEL.j Did you see Mr. Lincoln, Anabel? ANABEL. (Shakes her head slozvly and looks at the ANGEL questioningly.) Do you think Cesar really did see Massa Linkum? ANGEL. I think it quite probable. ANABEL. (Her face lighting.) O, then, do you think I shall see Jesus — soon? (The light gleams out.) THE ANGEL AT THE GATE There is the pretty light again. (She notes the ANGEL'S attitude. GRAHAM and EDWIN stand with bowed heads. She speaks eagerly.) Was that Him? Was that Jesus? ANGEL. (Regards her sympathetically.) I do not know, Anabel. We see the light and feel the blessing that comes with it. We feel Him so near — so precious, . . . ANABEL. (With wondering and sorrozvful face.) And is that all? I shall never see Him? You have never seen Him? — but why — why? ANGEL. Perhaps He does not let us see Him in the way we wish because He does not wish us to think of Him in that way. "God is a spirit and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth." Don't you remember how He rebuked His disciples ? "Why callest thou me good?" There — there, Ana- bel. You must not grieve, and you must try to be content. ANABEL. (Wiping her eyes and looking at him with a faint, trembling smile.) Once I thought I heard Him calling me, very softly, "Anabel — Anabel" — but it wuz only de chillun call- in' me to come and play. ANGEL. He calls us in many ways, in the children's voices and the birds' songs, He smiles upon us in the sunset and the blue sky, and is with us in every good word and deed. Try to look for Him within. -53 — THE ANGEL AT THE GATE ANABEL. (Smiling through her tears.) I will try. It is good in you to teach me. Now, may I run back and tell Cesar that I think he did see Massa Linl