TH6 IlF6 
 
 gYOND 
 
 l 
 
 H.HSPWORTH
 
 
 f
 
 THE LIFE BEYOND
 
 THE LIFE BEYOND. 
 
 THIS MORTAL MUST 
 PUT ON IMMORTALITY. 
 
 BY 
 GEORGE H. J3EPWORTH. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "HIRAM GOLF'S RELIGION," "THEY MET IN HEAVEN," ETC, 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET 
 1895
 
 Copyright, 1894, 
 By E. P. DUTTON & Co. 
 
 0e Corfon (preBB 
 
 \ t 173 Macdougal Street, New York
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. A HANDFUL OF SAND 9 
 
 II. FURNACE AND TRIP-HAMMER . . 21 
 
 III. PULLEYS AND WIRES 35 
 
 IV. AN UNFINISHED BUILDING .... 55 
 V. "A LITTLE NEARER HOME" ... 65 
 
 VI. A MARBLE BABE 87 
 
 VII. A FLY IN THE BELFRY 101
 
 IT has given me a great deal of pleasure to 
 write this little book. The experiences of a long 
 ministry have been recalled, and I have lived my 
 life all over again. 
 
 I am specially gratified, however, by the con- 
 viction that I have not made a single statement 
 which in any true sense can be called original. 
 As an author, that fact, perhaps, cannot be 
 regarded as a source of pride ; but as a lover 
 of my kind it gives me unspeakable joy. 
 
 Every question which is asked Jias been put to 
 some Master a thousand times in the generations 
 gone by. The doubts expressed have been the sad 
 inheritance of every age since man first began to 
 wonder and to think. j /The answers, also, which 
 fall from my Master's lips, have been the gift of 
 faith to a struggling world ever since the morning 
 stars sang together. 
 
 It is simply my privilege to tell the old story 
 in my own way ; and if it be trite that no word 
 of comfort is ever uttered in vain, I may be 
 permitted to hope that even these pages will carry 
 good cheer to some forlorn or wearied soul that 
 gropes in the darkness and longs for the light. 
 
 G. H.
 
 Is the lost friend still mysteriously here, even as we 
 are here mysteriously, with God ? Know of a truth 
 that only the Time-shadows have perished, or are per- 
 ishable; that the real Being of whatever was, and what- 
 ever is, and whatever will be, is even now and forever. 
 This, should it unhappily seem new, thou mayest ponder ./ 
 at thy leisure, for the next twenty years, or the next 
 twenty centuries. Believe it thou must ; understand it 
 thou canst not. CARLYLE.
 
 THE LIFE BEYOND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A HANDFUL OF SAND. 
 
 T HAVE always called him " The Mas- 
 ter." This title seemed to be his by 
 right of mental and moral superiority. 
 He has been my most intimate and my 
 most revered friend from childhood, the 
 soul of my soul, from whom I should re- 
 gard it a sacrilege to hide either my hopes 
 or my fears. A man formed " in the prod- 
 igality of nature," he would, I am sure; 
 advise me for my best good even at great 
 cost to himself. I have never had cause 
 to doubt either his wisdom or his un- 
 selfishness. 
 
 It may be a little difficult to fix the 
 fine lineaments of his face in your mind's
 
 io The Life Beyond. 
 
 eye ; but I wish you might see him as I 
 do, and love and trust him as I have done 
 through many dark and joyful experi- 
 ences. He is somewhat above the me- 
 dium height, and spare in person. There 
 is a slight stoop to his shoulders, caused 
 perhaps by the fact that he has borne 
 many burdens besides his own. His eyes 
 are deeply blue, like the sky of a clear 
 winter's day, and their gaze is as calm as 
 the sea in summer. You are always con- 
 scious, however, such is their searching 
 power, that they not only look at you, 
 but into and through you ; not with the 
 glance of curiosity, for no intrusive ques- 
 tion has ever passed his lips, but with an 
 evident desire to discover what is good, 
 and to add a blessing to every fresh and 
 beautiful impulse. 
 
 He is so gentle that the most timid 
 child finds a restful asylum in his arms; 
 and yet behind the gentleness there is a 
 rugged strength that never deigns to make 
 a compromise with untruth or wrong. I
 
 A Handful of Sand. 1 1 
 
 have seen him indignant on rare occasions ; 
 but his wrath is that of the Lamb. When 
 he utters burning words, they are fringed 
 with pity, and remind one of the silver 
 lining on the edge of a dark cloud. 
 
 Had I been a Greek of the olden days 
 and met him, I should have instinctively 
 fallen on my knees, assured that he had 
 strayed from Olympus. His voice, so rich 
 and mellow; his bearing, so dignified and 
 yet so attractive; his lack of selfishness, 
 evident in every criticism and gesture, 
 marked him as an exceptional being ; not 
 supernatural of course, but extra-natural; 
 not hopelessly beyond imitation, but far 
 above the actual, as one who could talk 
 with an angel on terms of equality. 
 
 Through all the earliest years of my 
 life when I dreamed dreams, and now in 
 my middle age, when so many of those 
 dreams are breaking their promise, he has 
 been so wise and tender that I have come 
 to regard him as my second Providence. 
 He has sight and insight; not only sees
 
 12 The Life Beyond. 
 
 what I wish him to see, but detects the 
 omission if I fail to tell him all, as quickly 
 as a musician discovers the loss of a pas- 
 sage when listening to a symphony of 
 Beethoven. Early in my acquaintance 
 with him I learned, and with a heartache, 
 that he must know everything or nothing. 
 He was impatient of half truths and half 
 statements, or of any attempt to escape 
 censure by an understatement or an over- 
 statement of facts, and would not be con- 
 tent until I had told the exact truth and 
 assumed my full share of blame in any 
 quarrel. In other words, he first discov- 
 ered me, and then revealed me to myself. 
 
 One day my Master and I were stand- 
 ing on the seashore. The boiling surf 
 rumbled at our feet, and the south wind 
 fanned our cheeks as the sun settled be- 
 hind gorgeous clouds. Neither of us had 
 spoken for several minutes ; the scene 
 afforded all the companionship we needed. 
 The proud Atlantic, restlessly rolling 
 toward the sand on the flood-tide, or
 
 A Handful of Sand. 13 
 
 restlessly withdrawing on the ebb, one 
 vast expanse of water far as eye could 
 reach ; the little fishing-vessels, like sil- 
 houettes against the sky, spreading their 
 white sails that they might reach a lea 
 before night fell; the great steamships, 
 leaving long tracts of black smoke behind, 
 just crossing the threshold of the harbor 
 and bearing their freight of life and treas- 
 ure to some farther shore ; behind us the 
 dro\vsy villagers, their day's work done, 
 preparing for well-earned slumber ; on the 
 horizon's edge a range of hills crimsoned 
 by the last rays of a declining day, all 
 this gave to meditation a strange and 
 serene satisfaction. 
 
 Then I grasped a handful of sand, and 
 watched it as it slipped through my fin- 
 gers. I sighed as I said, " Master, I can- 
 not hold it." 
 
 " It is the symbol of time," he answered. 
 " It is yours for a moment only. Do your 
 best, it escapes. The man is stronger 
 than the child, but neither man nor child
 
 14 The Life Beyond. 
 
 can hold it fast. Particle by particle it 
 falls to the beach whence it came." 
 
 " And that is very sad," I stoutly 
 asserted. 
 
 "Why so, my son?" 
 
 " Because life is beautiful, and I would 
 keep it as long as I may." 
 
 " You mistake," he said. " Life is not 
 beautiful, but the soul is beautiful. Time 
 has little to do with happiness, or with 
 achievement. The present is simply eter- 
 nity in swaddling clothes. Why grow sad 
 at the loss of these little days, when there 
 are so many ones before you? What 
 difference does it make to the spirit of 
 man whether it is Here or There? Let 
 the sand slip through your fingers; let the 
 days come and go. These are matters of 
 small consequence. You are rich in hav- 
 ing the whole beach to draw from, though 
 you require only a handful ; and doubly 
 rich in having the ages credited to your 
 account, though you can use only a few 
 days at a time."
 
 A Handful of Sand. 1 5 
 
 " But life is so short, Master," I per- 
 sisted. " I have a thousand plans, a thou- 
 sand alluring hopes. The years in which 
 to achieve are so few that I am discour- 
 aged. I no sooner get ready than even- 
 ing comes and the darkness shuts down." 
 
 " Every day, every experience," replied 
 the Master, solemnly, " is man's oppor- 
 tunity. If you have courage, all goes 
 well; if you are a coward, all goes ill. 
 Think of these lines, for they hide a great 
 truth : " 
 
 ' " A craven hung along the battle's edge 
 
 And thought, ' Had I a sword of keener steel, 
 That true blade that the King's son bears. But this 
 Blunt thing I ' he snapped and flung it from his hand. 
 
 " Then came the King's son, wounded, sore bestead, 
 And weaponless, and saw the broken sword 
 Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, 
 And ran and snatched it ; and with battle-shout 
 Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down, 
 And saved a great cause that heroic day." 1 
 
 " You shame me, Master," I cried in 
 mingled pain and pride, "with your cut- 
 ting words. And yet, though I have been
 
 1 6 The Life Beyond. 
 
 eager, my life is slipping away and little 
 has been accomplished. Only yesterday 
 I was young; today I am in middle life; 
 to-morrow I shall be old; the next day 
 
 " Well," he interrupted, " and the next 
 day?" 
 
 "Why, the next day I shall be in my 
 grave," I answered firmly. 
 
 " I am sorry, very sorry," and the Mas- 
 ter gazed thoughtfully at the shadows 
 which gathered over the water. 
 
 "But is it not true?" I asked. 
 
 " I hope not. I do indeed hope not. I 
 cannot think of you, my dear friend, in a 
 grave." 
 
 " I do not mean quite that, perhaps," 
 I replied. "Not I, but my body, this 
 house in which I live." 
 
 " And you yourself? " he asked, with a 
 warm glow in his tones. 
 
 " Ah, well, as for what you call myself," 
 and I dropped the handful of sand, 
 " I shall be in the Beyond, possibly." 
 
 " Possibly, my son ! Can you say no
 
 A Handful of Sand. 17 
 
 more than that? Is immortality only a 
 possibility? Then I do not wonder that 
 you cling to these fleeting days and years, 
 and lose them with regret. You doubt, 
 therefore you fear. The certainty of an- 
 other life is happiness ; its uncertainty is 
 despair. If the craft in which you set 
 sail is not seaworthy, your voyage is but 
 prolonged misery. If you suspect the 
 skill of your captain, you are in dread 
 every hour; but if the captain has weath- 
 ered a hundred storms, and your craft is 
 stanch, you laugh at the tempest, and 
 the billows are mere playthings. To 
 know that life is only the beginning, is to 
 journey with a high heart; to fear that it 
 may be the end, is to shiver and shrink as 
 the years toll themselves into the past." 
 
 "And you have no doubts?" I asked. 
 
 "When I stand in the porch of the ca- 
 thedral," he answered impressively, " I 
 scan its beauties, and am glad and happy, 
 but my chief enjoyment is one of antici- 
 pation. The architect who designed and
 
 1 8 The Life Beyond. 
 
 builded such a porch has by those acts 
 promised me an entrance into the larger 
 building. The porch is but the preface 
 to the story which he will tell me later on ; 
 no man builds a porch and then forgets 
 to build the cathedral of which it is the 
 threshold. I may linger as I gaze at the 
 fine symbols which he has cut into marble, 
 and marvel at his skill; but after all I am 
 not sorry when that lesser delight is ended, 
 and the great baize curtains are drawn 
 aside, and I am ushered into the main 
 structure, whose nave stretches into the 
 distance, whose dome, with its many col- 
 ored lights, hovers over my startled little- 
 ness, and whose organ-peals send a thrill 
 of new-born happiness through my soul. 
 Is it not so with you also, my son? " 
 
 " Not quite, dear Master," I replied ; " I 
 wish it were. I do not know that I have 
 any positive apprehensions of the future, 
 but when I think of it there is twilight in 
 my heart. I am sure of to-day, can see 
 it, feel it; I wish it would stay with me
 
 A Handful of Sand. 19 
 
 forever. Sometimes when I sit alone in 
 my room and hear that old Dutch clock 
 tick the seconds away, I grow wild and 
 desperate. My powerlessness irritates 
 me, and when the dull, resounding gong 
 strikes the hour, I feel like doing battle 
 with Time, binding him hand and foot, 
 and so prevent this awful robbery of 
 precious moments." 
 
 "Then you are not happy?" he asked. 
 
 " No, except when I am too occupied 
 to think of these things." 
 
 " If you were sure " 
 
 "Then I should sound this life to its 
 depths, use every opportunity to the best 
 of my ability, and with my half-finished 
 plans and half-dreamed dreams, face the 
 future with a hopefulness and a joy 
 beyond expression." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he mused ; " and you, my 
 son, represent the average man?" 
 
 " I fear so, Master." 
 
 " The future is to many men a mere 
 Perhaps."
 
 20 The Life Beyond. 
 
 " I dare not say it is anything more. 
 And to you?" 
 
 "To me? I sometimes think that if I 
 could be as sure of this life as I am of the 
 other, I should be happier." 
 
 I looked my wonder, but did not utter it. 
 
 " We must speak of this again," he said, 
 at length. 
 
 Then, without a word, we retraced our 
 steps to the little cottage. 
 
 " Good-night, my son," he said, as he 
 took my hand. " We will now lie down 
 in death for a few hours, and in the morn- 
 ing the sun will wake us. Sleep? Is it 
 not death? And is it not a refreshment? 
 Good-night"
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FURNACE AND TRIP-HAMMER. 
 
 A LITTLE later on my Master and I 
 * * were sitting together before a bright 
 fire. The darkness had crept upon us 
 with slippered feet, but we did not care to 
 call for lights. When one is in a thoughtful 
 mood, the gloaming is an incentive; our 
 minds run smoothly when the twilight be- 
 gins to deepen. There is something also 
 very friendly, something that induces seri- 
 ous conversation in an open-grate fire. 
 The imagination is stirred, and we easily 
 become confidential. When we talk to 
 each other in the broad light of day, we 
 instinctively restrain a free utterance, be- 
 cause it seems as though all the world 
 were listening; but when the room is in
 
 22 The Life Beyond. 
 
 shadow, and the chairs look like spectres, 
 and the pale and fitful light from the bits 
 of coal is thrown on our faces, we feel 
 quite alone, and willingly tell our secrets. 
 
 " Master," I said, hardly knowing how 
 to begin, " we all endure sorrow. That 
 seems a strange, and at times a cruel, ne- 
 cessity ; and our disappointments and 
 griefs fall upon us by the multitude with 
 crushing force." 
 
 We were looking pensively into the 
 fire, and as I broke one of the coals the 
 flame threw its light on his beautiful face. 
 
 " Yes, thank Heaven," he answered ; " it 
 is one of the wise decrees of Providence 
 that hearts should ache." 
 
 Then we were silent for a full minute. 
 What could the Master mean, I asked 
 myself. I could not quite transfer my 
 thoughts to his standpoint, and was 
 puzzled. 
 
 "It would seem," I said, at length, "as 
 though our Father would like His chil- 
 dren to be happy."
 
 Furnace and Trip-hammer. 23 
 
 "So He does," was the reply; "and for 
 that reason He has sent afflictions into the 
 world." 
 
 " A paradox," I ventured to suggest. 
 
 "The strongest foundation," the Master 
 went on, "the strongest and surest foun- 
 dation for happiness is sorrow. Tears 
 make our eyes telescopic. Dry eyes see 
 the earth ; wet eyes see the heavens. 
 Tears are like a shower to the parched 
 soil; they fructify the soul and make it 
 rich in fruit. Without them life would be 
 one long drought, and in the autumn our 
 granaries would be empty." 
 
 " You preach a strange doctrine, 
 Master." 
 
 "The man," he continued, not noticing 
 my interruption, " the man whose eyes 
 have never been dimmed by disappoint- 
 ment has tost something of incalculable 
 value. Disappointment and grief are 
 golden keys which open secret chambers 
 where untold treasure is hidden." 
 
 " But, Master, graveyards are many."
 
 24 The Life Beyond. 
 
 " True, but graveyards are God's best 
 evangelists. They preach with a solemn 
 eloquence which must be heeded ; they 
 teach the great lesson at a time when ears 
 are open to hear. There is no sadness in 
 a freshly opened tomb, if you remember 
 one fact." 
 
 " Master, go on ; I would learn that 
 fact." 
 
 " No sadness, if you remember that 
 there are two doors to every tomb." 
 
 "Two doors? Is not one enough?" 
 
 " No, my son. One door means death 
 and separation ; two mean life and re- 
 union. There is a door on this side, which 
 swings on rusty hinges; there is also one 
 on the other side, and it swings on golden 
 hinges. With these eyes we see the first; 
 with the eyes of faith we see the second. 
 This one closes, and we go back to our 
 homes sorrowful; the other one opens, 
 and the released soul enters the glorious 
 presence of God." 
 
 "Then you think," I said,
 
 Furnace and Trip-hammer. 25 
 
 " That Heaven but tries our virtue by affliction; 
 That oft the cloud which wraps the present hour 
 Serves but to brighten all our future days 1 " 
 
 " I am sure," was the answer, " that 
 the world would be intolerable without its 
 sorrows; it would be impossible to live 
 in it. A man without a grief is a man 
 without, a heart; no soul ripens except in 
 the dark. Give men all they want, and 
 you give them too much ; God's with- 
 holding is man's salvation." 
 
 " But could not a world be made in 
 which grief would be unnecessary?" 
 
 " The Lord must answer that, my son, 
 not I. I only know that as human nature 
 is constituted, there must be night as well 
 as day, storms as well as sunshine. There 
 are certain qualities of character which 
 would lie dormant but for sorrow; and 
 they are the best qualities, those we 
 admire most and most covet. 
 
 " The farmer's crops come from the 
 sweat of his brow. He tears the quies- 
 cent sod with the relentless cruelty of the
 
 26 The Life Beyond. 
 
 plough ; he exercises a wise providence 
 over his acres, knows what is best for 
 them, and in spite of their resistance runs 
 the furrow to the end of the field. The 
 worthless grass may cry out that it is con- 
 tent as it is; but the farmer knows that 
 the soil is capable of bearing something 
 of greater value. He insists, and seems 
 a tyrant, when in truth he is beneficent. 
 The rude harrow completes the work of 
 seeming destruction, and then the seed is 
 scattered broadcast. The sun smiles on 
 what has been done ; the dews distil their 
 richness; the winds make music in the 
 forests ; the rains pour themselves in a 
 flood. Then comes the glorious autumn. 
 That field laughs with yellow sheaves of 
 grain; it has accomplished a useful pur- 
 pose. The grain at the end is the result 
 of the plough at the beginning. 
 
 " The soul is the field ; affliction is the 
 plough. No farm without a plough ; no 
 heart without a grief." 
 
 I could say nothing. My Masters fin-
 
 Furnace and Trip-hammer. 27 
 
 gers were sweeping the strings of a harp 
 whose mellow music was like a prayer. 
 The fire in the grate began to sing, as 
 cannel-coal sometimes does, and it seemed 
 an approving response to what the Master 
 said. 
 
 "We are made of obdurate metal," he 
 continued, as his voice sank almost to a 
 whisper, " and Heaven must needs smite 
 us with terrible force. I saw a huge pile 
 of rough, crude iron-ore just taken from 
 the bowels of a mountain ; it was useless, 
 but full of possibilities. They threw it 
 into a furnace seven times heated. When 
 it came out like a mill-stream, it had been 
 born again. The old worthless elements 
 had been consumed, and it was a new 
 creature. That furnace was apparently a 
 great sorrow; the flames were cruel, and 
 the heat was not to be endured. 
 
 " But the period of tribulation was not 
 yet ended. A little later on the bars into 
 which it had been cast were heated to a 
 white heat and placed under a trip-ham-
 
 28 The Life Beyond. 
 
 mer. The sparks flew as the blows fell ; 
 every flying spark was a remonstrance. 
 But the designer who needed that iron for 
 a special purpose shaped it to a plan of his 
 own. It was no easy task; but the trip- 
 hammer fell with redoubled energy, and at 
 last the metal yielded. It took the shape 
 required ; and if it had had consciousness, 
 it would have been grateful for both 
 hammer and furnace. 
 
 "The soul must also go through the 
 furnace and into the forge and under the 
 trip-hammer ; it takes shape slowly, and 
 then only by blows. God's hammer is 
 God's love. He wishes us to- be all we 
 can be ; and affliction is the only means 
 by which the end can be accomplished." 
 
 " But, Master, what is needed to enable 
 men to find in sorrow what God has placed 
 there?" 
 
 " A better understanding of the divine 
 law," he replied. " God's relations to the 
 human soul depend entirely on that soul's 
 attitude. God is always willing to be on
 
 Furnace and Trip-hammer. 29 
 
 confidential terms with us ; but we are 
 sometimes obstinate and blind. He tells 
 us what to do " 
 
 " But gives no reasons why we must 
 do it," I suggested. 
 
 u True," he answered very gravely. " Do 
 you know why He should, my son? The 
 giant and the pygmy travel side by side a 
 dangerous road. The giant simply says 
 to the pygmy : 'The way is dark and beset 
 by robbers. If you go alone, you are 
 likely to fall and be destroyed. Put your 
 hand in mine; we will go together, and 
 you will be safe. Obey without question, 
 and you shall soon see the gray dawn on 
 the hilltops, and the day will brighten.' 
 \Yhy should the giant explain to the pygmy 
 at such a time? The only duty of that 
 undefended traveller is to listen to the 
 voice of his friend, and to heed his words." 
 
 " But, Master, it is hard to do that. 
 The road is sometimes dreary; the weak 
 soul becomes embarrassed ; and when the 
 storm gathers "
 
 3o The Life Beyond. 
 
 " When the storm gathers, my son, all 
 the more need to trust One wiser than 
 ourselves. Our bewilderment is dissipated 
 by faith in the Great One ; we can be 
 calm if He promises to see us safely to the 
 journey's end. What is danger to us is 
 nothing to Plim. He has travelled that 
 self-same path before ; but we travel it for 
 the first time. He knows the whole ; we 
 know nothing. Our sole responsibility is 
 quiet, unmurmuring obedience; we must 
 not wait to discuss, nor yet to be con- 
 vinced that He can keep His word. The 
 safety we have already enjoyed is the only 
 proof of His power which He vouchsafes 
 to grant. Is not that enough?" 
 
 He saw that my mind was still troubled 
 and went on. 
 
 " A child is afraid to cross the narrow 
 bridge that spans the river. The roaring 
 of the waters, the soughing of the wind, 
 the feeling of uncertainty that creeps over 
 him, make him tremble. He hears the 
 voice of the father on the other bank. If
 
 Furnace and Trip-hammer. 31 
 
 he says to his soul, 'That is my father; 
 he is able to save me ; he has crossed this 
 bridge, and knows every point of danger; 
 I cannot fail, I cannot fall while he guides 
 me ' if he says that, timidity becomes 
 courage. The troubled mind is no longer 
 troubled. Each step is firm. He simply 
 listens and obeys. ' To the right, my 
 child, that plank is weak.' ' To the left, 
 my child, that plank is strong,' these are 
 words of wisdom and comfort. He yields 
 his own judgment to the keeping of that 
 loving parent, draws on the higher wisdom 
 and trusts nothing to his own ignorance. 
 Then step by step he reaches the end and 
 falls into the father's arms." 
 
 " I would I had such faith as that, dear 
 Master." 
 
 " The child has it, my son, why not the 
 man?" 
 
 " We want to know more, to see more," 
 I replied. "We ought perhaps to surrender 
 to this infinite wisdom ; but it is difficult." 
 
 " Yes," and the Master grew sad, " yes,
 
 32 The Life Beyond. 
 
 we are full of conceit. When God's way 
 is our way, we are satisfied. When He 
 asks us to walk by faith rather than sight, 
 we demur. But what a world this would 
 be, my son, if we trusted the Lord com- 
 pletely ! How easily we should bear our 
 burdens ! How hopefully we should meet 
 the sorrows of life ! As the bee findeth 
 honey in the weed, so we should find joy 
 in bereavement. Then our griefs would 
 be our opportunities. But we are self- 
 willed ; not we, but God must bend. The 
 father must beg the child to trust him. 
 So the world weeps blindly, and without 
 consolation. All is within reach; but we 
 possess nothing. The spirit starves; but 
 the larder is full. It shivers with the cold 
 when it need but move into the sunshine 
 to be warm." 
 
 Then he repeated these lines which have 
 echoed in my heart ever since : - 
 
 " Keep thine arms round all, O Father, 
 
 Round lamenting and lamented; 
 Round the living and repenting, 
 
 Round the dead who have repented.
 
 Furnace and Trip-hammer. 33 
 
 " Keep thine arms round all, O Father, 
 
 That are left or that are taken ; 
 For they all are needy, whether 
 The forsaking or forsaken." 
 
 The Master rose. He was worn with 
 the day's work and needed rest. " Give me 
 but faith," he said, " and you may have 
 all else. Without that, life is but linger- 
 ing agony. With that, the world is a glad 
 place to live in, even at midnight. Take 
 from me my house, my home, my friends, 
 my dear ones, if you will, but leave me 
 that one jewel of great price, and I can 
 rejoice, or at least I can endure. But give 
 me all that men most covet, fame, riches, 
 honors, and deprive me of my implicit 
 confidence in God's love, and I am a use- 
 less clod; my heart is broken, my en- 
 thusiasm is gone, my hope withers. Faith 
 is the lamp that guides my feet in slippery 
 places and closes my eyes in refreshing 
 slumber." 
 
 He was gone. I sat there for hours 
 alone; every now and again stirring the 
 3
 
 34 The Life Beyond. 
 
 coals to an unusual blaze and wondering 
 if I could ever climb the heights on which 
 the Master stood, and see the horizon 
 lighted by the rising sun of an eternal 
 morning as he saw it.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 PULLEYS AND WIRES. 
 
 afternoon a messenger brought 
 me a note from the Master. I was 
 busy, but his wish was always my law. 
 Of course he knew that I had little time to 
 spare, because it was my only capital in 
 trade; if, therefore, he requested me to 
 give him any portion of it, it was because 
 he felt that the expenditure would result 
 to my benefit. 
 
 The note ran : 
 
 " Come to me at your convenience. This 
 afternoon if possible. Bring your mind and 
 your heart with you." 
 
 In half an hour I had his hand in mine. 
 Evidently he was in an unusually serious 
 mood, not sad, but pensively thoughtful.
 
 36 The Life Beyond. 
 
 " My son," he began, " you are quite 
 aware that I seldom deal in argument. I 
 regard it as the poorest weapon in the 
 religious arsenal. As a general rule men 
 are not converted by discussion, but by 
 the. recognition of facts. True religion 
 does not rest on logic, but on results pro- 
 duced. The atheist may easily win in a 
 controversy if he is the more alert dis- 
 putant. What he states may seem con- 
 vincing because his opponent has either 
 used the wrong weapons, or used the right 
 ones unskilfully. An unbeliever may carry 
 off the laurels in a debate with a dull or 
 unlearned Christian, though the everlast- 
 ing truth may be with the latter. When, 
 however, you place side by side the high- 
 est results of infidelity and the best results 
 of religion, logic is silenced. You have 
 before you a question of fact. Admit that 
 better qualities of character are developed 
 by religion than by atheism, a serener 
 kind of endurance under suffering, a larger 
 hopefulness when death knocks at your
 
 Pulleys and Wires. 37 
 
 door, and you have proved your case 
 The dictum of science is that the theory 
 which does the best work and produces 
 the best results is more likely to be true 
 than the theory which fails in either of 
 these particulars. I care very little for 
 mere argumentation, therefore, and spend 
 my strength in watching the effect of 
 Christianity on human hearts. On the 
 whole, I am sure that the heart is worth 
 more than the brain. But I have sent for 
 you this afternoon because " 
 
 " You would break your rule, Mas- 
 ter, and engage me in controversy?" I 
 suggested. 
 
 " No," he answered ; " but because I 
 wish to afford you an unusual opportunity 
 to reason with yourself. In a word," he 
 added, with half a smile on his lips, " I 
 want to see you play a game of chess." 
 
 I was surprised, startled, and to a cer- 
 tain extent pained. He at once detected 
 all these states of mind and gently replied : 
 
 " I was never more in earnest in my life.
 
 38 The Life Beyond. 
 
 I know nothing more important than the 
 lesson which I hope you will teach your 
 soul during that game." 
 
 Of course I tried to stammer something 
 in reply, but my embarrassment got the 
 better of me. I was completely undone, 
 and half inclined to think that the Master 
 had begun to pay the penalty of overwork. 
 
 "I see your embarrassment," he said, 
 " and will explain. Some months ago it 
 was my good fortune to receive a sum of 
 money. I need so little myself, my wants 
 being few, that I looked about to find some 
 worthy object on which to bestow it. 
 Poor old Simeon Teets had been stricken 
 with typhoid fever which carried him with- 
 in hearing distance of heaven. But care- 
 ful nursing and our friend Doctor Brink 
 brought him back to health. He was 
 almost sorry to return, however, for he had 
 lost his situation and was hopelessly de- 
 pendent. One of his neighbors had a 
 pecuniary interest in an automaton chess- 
 player, and he offered, for a specified sum
 
 Pulleys and Wires. 39 
 
 to take Simeon into the firm. I gave him 
 the money, and he tells me that he has 
 been reasonably successful. The auto- 
 maton is on exhibition a few blocks away, 
 and as you are an expert at the game I 
 thought you might explain certain things 
 which have seemed to me very mysterious. 
 Will you go?" 
 
 I confess, I had not yet recovered from 
 my astonishment, but I assented with 
 such cheerfulness as I could command. 
 I thought of Dean Swift's pathetic predic- 
 tion: "I shall be like that tree, I shall 
 die at the top." We are apt to forget 
 that in the hands of a wise man the slight- 
 est incident may become a matter of great 
 moment. The dear Lord illustrated some 
 of His divine teachings by the birds of the 
 air, the fall of a sparrow, the tares of the 
 field, and the homely occurrences of every 
 day life. The Master, as I very soon 
 learned, had in mind one of the most 
 solemn problems man has ever tried to 
 solve. It was not an hour of leisurely
 
 40 The Life Beyond. 
 
 pleasure to which he was leading me ; but 
 a matter that underlies our life as a cor- 
 ner-stone underlies the temple which it 
 upholds. 
 
 We reached the little hall in which the 
 exhibition was held, and, fortunately for 
 us, there were few visitors. Simeon greeted 
 the Master with something like reverence, 
 and me with simple courtesy. He had 
 evidently expected our visit, and was 
 prepared to puzzle me as much as 
 possible. 
 
 " We will examine the automaton, if 
 you please," said the Master. 
 
 Thereupon Simeon opened a door in 
 the wooden image and asked me to make 
 myself acquainted with whatever was hid- 
 den therein. I saw a curious and interest- 
 ing complication of wires and pulleys. 
 What real relation they had to the several 
 movements of head, eyes, and arms was 
 beyond my ken. He opened another 
 and still another door, through each of 
 which I thrust my hand, but could dis-
 
 Pulleys and Wires. 41 
 
 cover nothing except more pulleys and 
 wires. It was a very curious and perfect 
 bit of mechanism, 
 
 " You have seen through these several 
 doors the whole inside?" asked Simeon. 
 
 " It would seem so," I answered doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 " You discover no place in which a man 
 or even a boy could hide himself? " asked 
 the Master. 
 
 " No," I replied ; " there is apparently 
 no room for anything more than what I 
 have seen." 
 
 " Then, if you are quite satisfied on that 
 point," said Simeon,' " perhaps you will 
 take a seat at the front of the automaton 
 and play a game with him." 
 
 I took the chair indicated and advanced 
 the king's pawn. After a brief interval 
 the wooden hand rose, and the stiff fingers 
 answered my move. The game went on 
 briskly for some time ; but I soon discov- 
 ered that I was playing with no novice. 
 The least slip on my part was taken advan-
 
 42 The Life Beyond. 
 
 tage of. I was forced to summon all my 
 resources; and even then it was, for thirty 
 minutes, uncertain which contestant would 
 make the checkmate. The automaton 
 forced me to place my king in an exposed 
 position, and then with such alertness 
 drove me to its defence that I was in con- 
 stant danger. I applied myself to the task 
 with increasing and almost tremulous en- 
 ergy; but my opponent pressed me at 
 every point. An indiscreet move on my 
 part laid bare my queen's rook, after 
 which followed a check and the rook's 
 capture. I then fought a losing game, 
 and was positively relieved when, by a 
 sudden exchange of pieces, the auto- 
 maton threw his knight into a strong 
 position, and with his king's bishop 
 effected a checkmate. I had played my 
 best, but lost the game. The automaton 
 was more expert than I, and my pride 
 was humbled. 
 
 All this time the Master stood by my 
 side carefully watching the varying vicissi-
 
 Pulhys and Wires. 43 
 
 tudes of the play. That angular, wooden 
 arm of the automaton, awkward to the last 
 degree, always lifted the right piece, al- 
 ways laid it down in the right place, and 
 never made a mistake. 
 
 " A very interesting contest between a 
 man and a machine," the Master said 
 slowly and gravely. 
 
 I had no reply to make, but smiled my 
 incredulity, and shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 " It seems," he added, " that a brain is 
 not the only vehicle of intelligence. The 
 cunning artisan can make a substitute 
 which does just as good work, and in this 
 case better." 
 
 " Master," I replied, " I have not been 
 playing chess with that wooden image." 
 
 " Xo? " he asked inquiringly. 
 
 " Certainly not," I answered ; " there 
 is a brain like mine hidden somewhere in 
 that automaton. Wires and pulleys are 
 not able to checkmate me." 
 
 " But, my son, you examined the auto- 
 maton. You opened every door, did you
 
 44 The Life Beyond. 
 
 not, and declared at last that neither boy 
 nor man could be concealed on the inside. 
 Your investigation was as complete as you 
 could make it; and you have the evidence 
 of your senses that there was and could be 
 nothing but wires and pulleys." 
 
 " Still," I replied rather warmly, " I am 
 willing to accuse myself of having been 
 entirely duped by my senses. The exam- 
 ination appeared to be exhaustive; but in 
 reality it was not so." 
 
 " Why do you corne to that conclusion, 
 my son?" 
 
 " Because I am convinced beyond the 
 possibility of a doubt that no machinery, 
 however skilfully devised, can adapt itself 
 to the uncertainty of my moves. If it 
 were known beforehand that I should 
 move a given number of pawns and pieces 
 in a prescribed way, it might then be 
 possible to mechanically prepare for each 
 move. But the automaton had no means 
 of knowing whether my next move would 
 be with knight or bishop ; and yet, in every
 
 Pulleys and Wires. 45 
 
 instance, he met my attack and repelled 
 me. Therefore " 
 
 " Yes," broke in the Master; " I am in- 
 terested to know what conclusion you 
 reach." 
 
 " Therefore," I went on, " there must be 
 a man with a brain hidden inside that 
 wooden man, whether I am able to dis- 
 cover his whereabouts or not." 
 
 " You seem to be very positive on that 
 point," said the Master. 
 
 " I am more than positive ; I am ab- 
 solutely certain," I replied. " I think I 
 would stake my life on the truth of that 
 statement." 
 
 " And yet you have not seen him," 
 mused the Master. 
 
 " No ; but I have played chess with him, 
 nevertheless." 
 
 "And you sought for him," he con- 
 tinued, "and could not find him. It 
 would therefore appear reasonable, would 
 it not, to suppose, that there is no man 
 of flesh inside the man of wood, but that
 
 46 The Life Beyond. 
 
 what was done was done by machinery 
 alone?" 
 
 I shook my head. " It is not possible 
 to convince me of that." 
 
 " Then you will admit, my son," he 
 added with great seriousness, " that there 
 may be a man within a man ; and so care- 
 fully hidden that with your utmost re- 
 search you cannot say, ' He is here/ or 
 'He is there'?" 
 
 " I not only admit it," I answered, " but 
 I assert it, and challenge contradiction." 
 
 " I think you have reasoned well," said 
 the Master. " We shall soon see." 
 
 Simeon, who had been listening in an 
 amused way to this dialogue, led us once 
 more to the rear of the figure. He opened 
 the doors through which we had before, 
 peered ; but nothing was visible. Then he 
 touched a secret spring, and another door 
 flew open. To my astonishment I saw a 
 man crouched in what must have been a 
 very uncomfortable position. Where he 
 found sufficient room for his body, arms,
 
 Pulleys and Wires. 47 
 
 and legs is still a mystery to me. But 
 there he was, nevertheless ; and it was he 
 and not the man of wood with whom I 
 had played the game. 
 
 At a word, and with a series of contor- 
 tions, he managed to crawl out of his hid- 
 ing place, and seemed greatly relieved at 
 his freedom. 
 
 " I was right, Master," I said trium- 
 phantly, "I was right in boldly assert- 
 ing that there was a man inside the man, 
 and that it was the inside man who check- 
 mated me." 
 
 " Yes," he answered slowly. " Yes ; you 
 were quite right. Now let us be going." 
 
 When we reached the street, he turned 
 to the north ; whereas our homes were to 
 the south. 
 
 " Master," I ventured to say, " we have 
 taken the wrong road." 
 
 " No," he answered ; " this is right. We 
 have still an hour before sundown, and I 
 have something else to show you. You 
 reason so skilfully that I would like to
 
 48 The Life Beyond. 
 
 have you do it once more. We have not 
 far to go ; and I think you will be repaid 
 for your pains." 
 
 We were, both of us, disinclined to con- 
 versation ; so I walked at his side, his arm 
 in mine, and said nothing. Silence is 
 sometimes eloquent; and sometimes it is 
 companionable. We do not always need 
 to speak in order to convey our thoughts. 
 I saw what the Master wanted to impress 
 on my mind, namely, that there is a man 
 within a man, that the two are wholly 
 distinct and independent of each other. 
 He showed his usual tact by making 
 no reference to the subject, but allow- 
 ing it time to become firmly fixed in my 
 mind. 
 
 We turned into the tenement district. 
 Ah, how the Master was loved by those 
 lowly folk ! He had a kindly word for 
 every one; though sometimes it was a 
 word of advice or warning. He reminded 
 me of the Christ in the streets of Jeru- 
 salem. There was a calm authority in all
 
 Pulleys ami IV ires. 49 
 
 he said and did which it would have 
 seemed sacrilege to question. I whis- 
 pered to my heart: When the Master 
 passes on to his reward, his epitaph 
 should be, " The poor were sorry when 
 he died." The love which those tene- 
 ment lodgers bore him had something of 
 reverence in it; and the reverence with 
 which they bowed as he passed had much 
 of love in it. 
 
 Up three flights we found our way, or 
 rather stumbled ; and then he knocked at 
 a door. The woman who opened it was 
 in tears. 
 
 " He 's going fast," she sobbed. " The 
 doctor has just been here, and he says it 's 
 pretty nearly over. Poor Tom ! How 
 can I spare him?" 
 
 " Mary," said the Master, " if the Lord 
 calls him, you can spare him. Tom is 
 needed in heaven ; the Lord has sent for 
 him. Would you keep him, Mary? " 
 
 The appeal well-nigh broke the woman's 
 heart. I have never seen greater anguish. 
 4
 
 50 The Life Beyond. 
 
 But the Master was as calm as he was 
 gentle. 
 
 Then he turned to me. " Did you 
 hear," he asked, "what this poor woman 
 said, my son? Her words were, ' He's go- 
 ing fast ! ' That is the language of a faith- 
 ful, trusting soul. It befits the noblest ele- 
 ments of our human nature. He's going! 
 Not simply the life, my son, but he." 
 
 Tom heard his step, and possibly his 
 whispered words of comfort to the wife. 
 As we entered the room he beckoned to 
 the Master. His speech was very feeble, 
 for there were only a few sparks of vitality 
 left; but he was cheerful and resigned. 
 After a little that strange pallor came over 
 his face which always means that the Mes- 
 senger has arrived. Tom took a last long 
 look at the world, then gasped, " Good- 
 by, Molly," and was gone. 
 
 We knelt by the bedside, and the Mas- 
 ter prayed. I never knew till that moment 
 the real significance of prayer. The Mas- 
 ter seemed sure that the Lord would hear
 
 Pulleys and Wires. 51 
 
 him and grant his requests, provided the 
 higher wisdom deemed it expedient. 
 There was in his petition a certain assur- 
 ance, like that of a son who feels that he 
 has a right to consult with his father, and 
 at the same time a profound humility 
 which kept self, even with its eagerness 
 for assistance, in the background, and was 
 satisfied to state the matter as the peti 
 tioner understood it, and then leave it 
 in the hands of the Being whom he 
 addressed. It was an impressive prayer, 
 but full of unwavering faith, and calm, 
 serene confidence. 
 
 Mary left the room for a little; and the 
 Master summoned me to his side by the 
 body of poor Tom. 
 
 " My son," he said, " a wonderful change 
 has occurred in the career of this dear 
 sleeper. An hour ago these ears could 
 hear, these eyes could see, these lips could 
 speak. You heard the last words he ut- 
 tered. If you speak to him now, he will 
 not respond. He hears nothing; he sees
 
 52 71)e Life Beyond. 
 
 nothing; that hand lies limp on the cov- 
 erlid. This body is like the wooden image 
 of the automaton; there you had wires 
 and pulleys, a marvellous arrangement 
 of mechanical skill. Here you have 
 nerves and muscles, a device so cun- 
 ning, so artistic, so perfect in every part, 
 that genius may try to duplicate it in vain. 
 You could not find the man within the 
 man when you searched the wooden im- 
 age ; and a similar investigation, while Tom 
 lived, would have had the same result. 
 In both cases the man within the man 
 was so deftly concealed that he was un- 
 discoverable." 
 
 I bowed my head in affirmation ; but the 
 tears welled into my eyes. I felt the full 
 force of what the Master said, and saw 
 why he had sent me that note. I had 
 passed, or was passing, through the most 
 solemn experience of my life, and the red 
 blood of suppressed excitement tinged my 
 cheeks. 
 
 " You argued," he continued, " that
 
 Pulleys and Wires. 53 
 
 though you could find nobody hidden in 
 the automaton, there must be that was 
 the phrase you used there must be some 
 one there. When I asserted that the wires 
 and pulleys were playing chess with you, 
 you repudiated the statement, and became 
 still more emphatic that there was some 
 one in that wooden man who not only 
 checked but checkmated you. Then your 
 statement was proved true. Simeon opened 
 a door which had escaped your notice, and 
 the real chess-player stepped out. He was 
 glad to get away from his narrow quarters, 
 and felt a sense of freedom in the use of 
 his limbs." 
 
 Again I nodded. 
 
 "The same argument holds good here. 
 Tom was concealed within these confining 
 limits. While thus imprisoned he used all 
 this marvellous machinery. He spoke to 
 you through these lips, looked at you 
 through these eyes, and extended this 
 emaciated hand in welcome." 
 
 I was in a whirl of conflicting thoughts.
 
 54 The Life Beyond. 
 
 The scene seemed to suffocate me. I ner- 
 vously caught my breath, and felt myself 
 trembling from head to foot. 
 
 "Some one we call him Death," went 
 on the Master " has unbarred that other 
 door. Tom has stepped out; and what 
 you now see is only a wonderful bit of 
 mechanism." 
 
 " Enough, my Master, enough," I 
 hoarsely whispered; "I can endure no 
 more. I have learned your lesson." 
 
 " Then," he replied, " we will be 
 grateful." 
 
 We parted at the street corner. His 
 last words were, " My son, there is always 
 a man within the man ; and death is the 
 gentle warden of his prison-house, who, 
 when the order for release comes, takes 
 the key from his girdle, unlocks the door, 
 and sets the prisoner free. Farewell." 
 And he was gone.
 
 CHAPTER IV, 
 
 AN UNFINISHED BUILDING. 
 
 "XT OVEMBER is a cheerless, dreary 
 * ^ month; but when you sit in front 
 of a bright open fire it loses its terrors. 
 I have a certain disdain for what are 
 named modern improvements, furnace- 
 heated houses, running water in every 
 room, weather strips which hermetically 
 seal the room and make it as unhealthy as 
 possible; so when I inherited a little 
 snuggery, I had all these so-called " con- 
 veniences " removed, very much to the 
 suppressed disgust of some of my friends, 
 and determined to be comfortable in my 
 own way. 
 
 Among other things which I insisted 
 upon was a fireplace of the old-fashioned 
 sort, nearly six feet wide. In the cool 
 autumn days a lump of cannel-coal would
 
 56 The Life Beyond. 
 
 give me all the light and heat I wanted ; 
 but when winter set in, say the last of 
 November, with its penetrating winds 
 and its flying snow-flakes, I cheered my- 
 self with a huge back-log, which would 
 burn and sputter for hours, and an arm- 
 ful of smaller stuff for purposes of illumi- 
 nation. 
 
 That was the room in which the Master 
 and I were wont to sit. His conversation 
 flowed like a stream of molten silver, and 
 I was a good listener. He delighted to 
 recite the experiences of the day, and 
 to use them as clews which helped us to 
 grope our way through many dark and 
 troublous problems. 
 
 One afternoon it was Sunday we 
 walked to church together. On the way 
 we passed a huge building, at the corner 
 of the street, in process of construction. 
 After the manner of the Christ, he found 
 a lesson in it. He stood for some minutes 
 gazing at its comely proportions, and at 
 last said,
 
 An Unfinished Building. 57 
 
 " A noble structure, my son." 
 
 "Yes," I answered; "it will be when 
 completed." 
 
 "Completed?" he asked. "Is it not 
 already complete?" 
 
 " Why, Master," I said, "can you not 
 see that it is quite imperfect? The roof 
 is not yet on ; there are no windows ; 
 the floors are merely scaffoldings; and 
 here, scattered all about us, are piles of 
 material." 
 
 "Yes," he answered musingly; "I have 
 noticed all these things ; but, my son, there 
 are no workmen here. One would think 
 the end had been reached, would they 
 not? And yet it seems sad that an edi- 
 fice with such promise should never be 
 finished." 
 
 " Master," I hastened to say, " you are 
 curiously mistaken. I have watched this 
 building from the very beginning; I have 
 seen it grow stone by stone. Moreover, 
 the architect is my personal friend, and he 
 has permitted me to look at the plans.
 
 5 8 The Life Beyond. 
 
 In its present rude condition it is compar- 
 atively unsightly; but when a few more 
 months have passed it will be one of the 
 finest buildings in the city. The laborers 
 are not here, because it is the Sabbath ; 
 but to-morrow morning they will be at 
 work again." 
 
 He looked at me with a strange gleam 
 in- his eyes. 
 
 " So you believe the work will go on, 
 my son? " 
 
 " Most assuredly, Master." 
 
 "And why do you believe it?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " For a thousand reasons," I replied. 
 
 " Give me one," he said. 
 
 " Well, because incomplete buildings 
 are of no use. It would be worse than 
 folly to begin such a work and not finish 
 it." 
 
 " Worse than folly? " he repeated. " Is 
 not that strong language? " 
 
 " Strong, but not too strong," I replied. 
 " The supposition that an edifice like that
 
 An Unfinished Building. 59 
 
 should be left in its present condition 
 needs rather vehement repudiation." 
 
 " You argue, then," he broke in, " from 
 what you know of the nature of the 
 building itself; and you feel a degree of 
 assurance when you state that some time 
 hence it will be more than it is now." 
 
 " Of course, Master. What a blunder 
 it would be to dig deep for such founda- 
 tions as those; to go to an enormous 
 expense to quarry rock and purchase 
 timber, and then leave the structure as it 
 is to-day." 
 
 " Give me another reason," he added 
 calmly. " I am greatly interested." 
 
 " Why, I know what the building is in- 
 tended for: it is to be a warehouse for 
 costly importations. It will hold vast 
 values ; but as it is now, it is useless for this 
 purpose. With no roof and no windows, 
 the rains would beat in and destroy every- 
 thing; with no floors, the fabrics would be 
 endangered; and with no doors for pro- 
 tection, thieves could break in and steal."
 
 60 The Life Beyond. 
 
 "Have you still another reason?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Certainly, Master. The architect has 
 a reputation ; he has earned it in many, 
 ways, by other structures, a score of them, 
 which are used for like purposes. He 
 would be adjudged not simply unwise, but 
 unworthy of his profession, if he should 
 carry a project with such possibilities only 
 thus far and no farther." 
 
 " Then from what you know of the 
 builder," he said, "and from what you 
 know of the building itself, that is, the 
 purposes which it is capable of fulfilling, 
 you conclude that what you see is not all, 
 but that this incompleteness is to give 
 way to completeness in the future?" 
 
 " Precisely, my Master." 
 
 " What real strength have your argu- 
 ments?" he persisted. "Do you simply 
 entertain an opinion, or have you a decided 
 conviction? " 
 
 "Why," I answered, "it is a conviction 
 so conclusive that the world would have
 
 An Unfinished Building. 61 
 
 to be turned upside down, and all the re- 
 sults of my experience reversed, before I 
 could admit the possibility of a doubt. If 
 I know anything at all ; if I can in any 
 degree rely on my observation, I am 
 as sure as I am that the sun will rise 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " You are indeed confident," he an- 
 swered, and then we walked on. 
 
 At last the drift of his questioning be- 
 came apparent. For fully ten minutes 
 neither of us spoke; we were too much 
 absorbed in our own thoughts for conver- 
 sation. At length, however, I ventured to 
 ask, " Master, why do you believe that the 
 soul is immortal?" 
 
 " Because," he answered very deliber- 
 ately, " its development is incomplete at 
 death, and God never begins a work 
 without finishing it." 
 
 " The soul is like that building," I 
 suggested. 
 
 " In many respects, yes, my son. I 
 think I know something of the plan of
 
 62 The Life Bevond. 
 
 the Architect. The work He has laid out 
 cannot be done in time, only begun. It 
 must be finished, if finished at all, in 
 eternity." 
 
 Then the conversation dropped, because 
 we were at the door of the little chapel. 
 In the evening, however, the subject was 
 resumed; and by that open fire we talked 
 and mused until the warning tones of the 
 old clock in the corner forced us to part. 
 He spoke in staccato phrases ; and I 
 noted them down as they fell from his 
 lips : 
 
 " We hardly get ready to live before 
 death knocks at our doors. Our powers 
 gradually mature, as the years with their 
 heat and frost go by ; and at the end we 
 are conscious that we can do much more 
 and much better if we have the opportu- 
 nity. Is it possible that that opportunity 
 will be denied us? 
 
 " No man ever accomplished all that 
 could reasonably be required of him. 
 However faithful he may be, he must
 
 An Unfinished Building. 63 
 
 needs leave his work unfinished. He is 
 an arrested development when we lower 
 his body into the grave. 
 
 " We believe in immortality from in- 
 stinct. Unbelief, like the taste for certain 
 fruits, is not natural; it repudiates the one 
 thing which we crave with unappeasable 
 appetite. 
 
 " You are forced to reason yourself out 
 of a belief in immortality; and when your 
 reason has done its best, and accomplished 
 its task, the hope still lingers that the rea- 
 soning is not conclusive. No man ever 
 rejoices that a future life is denied him. 
 
 " This faith is the cradle in which all 
 the higher virtues are rocked. 
 
 " Give me that one glorious conviction 
 as my soul's anchor, and I can outride all 
 storms. When doubt becomes my anchor, 
 it drags in the tempest, and my soul goes 
 ashore, a wreck. 
 
 " If a man dies when he dies, it were 
 better he had never been born; God 
 made a mistake in creating him.
 
 64 The Life Beyond. 
 
 " The bereavement which looks into the 
 grave is leaden ; the bereavement which 
 dares to look toward the stars with hope 
 is golden. 
 
 " If the heart says ' Finis,' it is wounded 
 beyond all surgery. If it says ' to be con- 
 tinued/ it is like a Toledo blade which 
 bends but cannot snap."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "A LITTLE NEARER HOME." 
 
 T VERY abruptly opened a conversation 
 * with the Master one evening by saying, 
 as I roughly used my iron wand on the 
 logs in the big fire-place and raised a 
 glorious shower of sparks, 
 
 " Master, what is your attitude toward 
 honest doubt?" 
 
 " One of admiration for the honesty," 
 he replied, " and of pity for the doubt" 
 
 "Why pity?" I inquired. 
 
 " Because that condition of mind which 
 calls up from the vasty deep a group of 
 ghostly uncertainties instead of eternal 
 and inspiring verities is depressing and 
 debilitating. Universal doubt would be 
 the equivalent of universal barbarism; 
 universal faith is the equivalent of pro- 
 5
 
 66 The Life Beyond. 
 
 gress. The world will not run smoothly 
 on negations. Human nature is so con- 
 stituted that it must have some strong 
 convictions or it can do no good work." 
 
 " I have never seen a man," I continued, 
 " whose faith seemed to be as vivid as 
 yours is. You have positively no fear of 
 death, not even that shrinking from the 
 ordeal which is natural to human nature." 
 
 "Why should I shrink?" he asked. 
 
 "Because it is a leap into the dark," I 
 suggested. 
 
 " On the contrary," he replied quickly, 
 " it is a leap from the dark into the light. 
 If one's income has been limited to cop- 
 per coins, and he has lived within the nar- 
 row environment of such purchases as 
 copper represents, would he shrink from 
 accepting a piece of gold, which will af- 
 ford him the comforts which he has often 
 dreamed of but never possessed? Does 
 a man shrink when he falls heir to a large 
 estate? This life is well enough. Its stars 
 make the night beautiful ; and its waving
 
 "A Little Nearer Home." 67 
 
 fields of grain rejoice the heart. I am 
 grateful for the grandeur and suggestive- 
 ness of my surroundings, and must try to 
 get the best there is, and appropriate it 
 to my personal use. Every day brings 
 its separate enjoyment; and it is a great 
 privilege to live in these lower rooms of 
 the Father's mansion. But why should I 
 complain if the Owner of the House sends 
 me word that He has prepared a more 
 commodious apartment, and would be 
 glad to have me move into it. If I have 
 lived rightly, I deem it an honor and a 
 privilege to die." 
 
 " I think Hamlet represents my feel- 
 ings and my fears," I answered, " in these 
 words : " 
 
 " To die : to sleep ; 
 
 No more ; and by a sleep to say we end 
 The heartache and the thousand natural shocks 
 That flesh is heir to, 't is a consummation 
 Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep ; 
 To sleep : perchance to dream : ay, there 's the rub ; 
 For in that sleep of death what dreams may come 
 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
 Must give us pause."
 
 68 The Life Beyond. 
 
 The Master sat silent for a moment. 
 Then he said, " My son, a certain dread 
 of death is necessary to the preservation 
 of life. If men were otherwise constituted, 
 we should be unwilling to remain in this 
 disappointing world. If the gorgeous bat- 
 tlements of heaven were visible, and we 
 could look from our burdens_to its rest 
 and peace, from our tears and struggles to 
 its surpassing joys, self-slaughter would 
 become a universal custom. Why live in 
 a hut, when, by a moment's pain, we could 
 transport ourselves to a palace? The 
 longing for the other life would be so 
 intense that all the higher purposes of 
 this life would be frustrated." 
 
 " I see," I said, " and if I remember, 
 there is a little poem by Stedman which 
 contains the same thought. Let me read 
 it to you, Master:" 
 
 " Could we but know 
 The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel, 
 
 Where lie those happier hills and meadows low, 
 Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil 
 
 Aught of that country could we surely know, 
 Who would not go ?
 
 "A Little Nearer Home." 69 
 
 " Might we but hear 
 The hovering angel's high imagined chorus, 
 
 Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear, 
 One radiant vista of the realm before us, 
 With one rapt moment given to see and hear, 
 Ah, who would fear ?'l 
 
 " The child of a king," continued the 
 Master, " is sent to an obscure village that 
 he may be educated. Discipline is neces- 
 sary that he may rightly rule when he 
 comes into his inheritance. That he may 
 become perfectly developed, he must keep 
 in mind two things : First, that he is not a 
 peasant, but a king's son. If this be- 
 comes a vivid fact, it will be a constant 
 incentive. He must bear himself like a 
 prince, and commit no act unworthy of his 
 station; he will disdain whatever is sor- 
 did and mean, be frank, honest, generous 
 and charitable. Then, second, he must 
 not forget that his father occupies the 
 throne, and that he will sometime be called 
 to the enjoyment of his inheritance. That 
 thought will lift him above his poor sur- 
 roundings. When trouble comes, and hard-
 
 70 The Life Beyond. 
 
 ship and wretchedness, he will say to his 
 soul, ' I must be patient. My father knew 
 that these things would happen when he 
 placed me here. I will tell him of my 
 sufferings, and he will help me to bear 
 them. By and by, he will send his 
 messenger, and then I shall enter into 
 power.' 
 
 " But he is told that he cannot get to 
 the father's house, even when summoned, 
 except by a very painful experience, and 
 being weak and timid, he is appalled. As 
 your Hamlet says, 'There's the rub.' His 
 peasant's life presses upon him so heavily 
 that he even doubts whether after all he 
 is the son of a king whom he has never 
 seen, whether this lower life of his is not 
 the only reality, and the promised life in 
 the palace a beautiful but deceptive dream. 
 If his doubt goes far enough, he fears the 
 change which will transport him to the 
 new condition of things, clings with in- 
 creasing tenacity to his drudgery, his 
 thatched cottage, his hard fare and harder
 
 " A Little Nearer Home." 71 
 
 bed ; and in the end the prince's aspirations 
 take flight and he is left a mere peasant, 
 without pride of birth or hope for the 
 future. He gravitates to lower things and 
 becomes as poor in thought and ambition 
 as he is poor in purse. His heart grows 
 .sluggish and selfish, and he ends a higher 
 order of animal. Without faith in the 
 future, this life is a dungeon. You must 
 dethrone God before you deny immor- 
 tality. If the one exists, the other follows 
 as a matter of course." 
 
 " Master," I said, for I saw he was in 
 such a mellow mood that he would lay bare 
 his heart, " you have often promised to 
 tell me the story of your father's last 
 hours. I do not seek to intrude on such 
 sacred privacy, but our conversation must 
 remind you of that sad period, and the 
 occasion seems to befit the recital." 
 
 " It was not a sad experience, my 
 son," he replied, after a moment's hesi- 
 tation. " Rather, one so hallowed by 
 trusting confidence that after five and
 
 72 The Life Beyond. 
 
 twenty years it makes my heart glow 
 with gratitude." 
 
 " Is it so long since he died? " I asked. 
 
 " Five and twenty years," he mused, as 
 he gazed into the blazing fire, " and yet 
 it seems but yesterday." 
 
 " His age, Master? " 
 
 " Just beyond fifty, in the vigor and 
 prime of life. And yet no broken column 
 represents his life. My son, there are no 
 broken columns in God's providence. His 
 work was done, and well done. Dear, 
 white-haired man ! tender and true ; a 
 jewel without a flaw; a soul without a 
 blemish." 
 
 The Master was slowly drawing aside 
 the veil ; and I did not venture to interrupt 
 him with a question. The moon had 
 dropped behind the hills, and deep dark- 
 ness had fallen on the landscape. The 
 only sound I heard was the deep bay 
 of the faithful watch-dog, as he warned 
 us that some stranger was passing by, 
 or the soughing of the wind in the
 
 " A Little Nearer Home" 73 
 
 branches of the pines near by; and yet 
 no sense of loneliness marred that quiet 
 evening hour. 
 
 " The janitor of the college," began the 
 Master, " knocked at my door just after 
 morning prayers one day, and placed in 
 my hand a telegram. In those times, and 
 with the people among whom I was born, 
 the telegraph was seldom used except in 
 great emergencies. My heart stood still, 
 and my eyes filled with tears. It was 
 only after a great effort that I forced 
 myself to open the message. Then I dis- 
 covered that my father had had a severe 
 hemorrhage and was weak from loss of 
 blood. There was nothing specially alarm- 
 ing in the information, for the dear man 
 had suffered in a like manner on former 
 occasions ; but there was something be- 
 tween the lines which made me tremble. 
 The words which one omits to write convey 
 sometimes more information than those 
 that are sent. I read my mother's mind 
 when she penned that message, and knew
 
 74 The Life Beyond. 
 
 perfectly what she longed to say but re- 
 frained from saying for fear of its effect 
 on me. I often wonder, my son, if there 
 are not two telegraphs at work at the same 
 time, the one operated by an employee, 
 and the other by mysterious agencies 
 which we as yet know little about. Be 
 that as it may, I really received two mes- 
 sages, the first by wire, announcing my 
 father's illness, and the other by impres- 
 sion, bidding me come home as quickly 
 as possible." 
 
 I would have interrupted the Master's 
 narrative at this point, for he had hinted at 
 a very interesting subject, and one con- 
 cerning which we have all had some 
 strange and inexplicable experiences. 
 Events do make themselves known by 
 throwing the shadow of their coming 
 through many miles of distance until it 
 falls on the heart of the person who is 
 most affected by them ; ; the pages of 
 history are full of incidents of this kind. 
 But I gazed at the sparks in the old fire-
 
 "A Little Nearer Home." 75 
 
 place as they flew upward, and said 
 nothing. 
 
 " When I reached the house," continued 
 the Master, " my father stood in the door- 
 way to welcome me. He knew I would 
 come on the wings of the wind ; and in 
 spite of his feebleness he had dressed, 
 taken his seat by the window to watch, and 
 then, when he saw me, came forward to 
 greet me. At the first glimpse of his wan 
 face I almost staggered. It was so pale, 
 and in the eyes was such a far away look 
 that I thought my heart would break. 
 But I quickly overcame my emotions for 
 his sake, took his hand, and kissed his 
 cheek as I always did after a separation. 
 
 " ' I am glad to see thee, my boy,' he 
 said with an air of weariness ; but I was too 
 full to make reply, and he led the way 
 into our little parlor. 
 
 "'You have been ill, Father? ' I said. 
 
 " ' Yes,' was the reply, in soft, low tones ; 
 ' more ill than ever before.' It was clear 
 that he was thinking profoundly, that he
 
 76 The Life Beyond. 
 
 had faced the emergency, and put aside 
 all its terrors. His manner was calm, too 
 calm, and his speech was so full of gen- 
 tleness and affection that I felt already 
 bereaved. 
 
 " ' But, Father,' I said with such cheer- 
 fulness as I could summon, ' a few days 
 rest and ' 
 
 " Then he interrupted me, saying with a 
 significance which pierced me to the soul : 
 ' My boy, I am glad you came home.' 
 
 " I knew what he meant; and he knew 
 that I knew it That was enough. The 
 subject was never referred to again. We 
 understood each other; and there was 
 nothing to do but to get ready for an 
 event whose coming could not be delayed. 
 
 " Shortly afterward he retired to his 
 chamber, and never rose again. Day 
 and night I was with him for four weeks, 
 only snatching, now and then, an hour 
 or two of troubled sleep. The tide of 
 life was on the ebb; every day found 
 him a little weaker. But the mind re-
 
 "A Little Nearer Home." 77 
 
 tained its wonted clearness, I had almost 
 said vigor. 
 
 " When I took his poor, thin hand in 
 mine and whispered, ' Father, how is it 
 with you ? ' he always replied, 
 
 " ' A little nearer home, my son.' 
 
 "That was his attitude. The journey 
 was drawing to a close, and with each 
 passing hour he was ' a little nearer home.' 
 
 " There was a period of suffering, not 
 of pain, but of great discomfort. It 
 seemed an effort for the heart to con- 
 tinue its beating. 
 
 "'What day is it?' he asked. 
 
 " ' Tuesday, Father,' I answered. 
 
 " Then he looked at me with those 
 beautiful blue eyes and said, ' To-mor- 
 row will be Wednesday,' and fell into a 
 doze. 
 
 "On Wednesday, at daybreak, he called 
 for me. The sun threw its slanting rays 
 through the window, and the cool, fresh 
 breeze crept into the room. We were 
 alone together. The tide was ebbing fast,
 
 78 The Life Beyond. 
 
 and ere many hours my watching would 
 be over. 
 
 " ' My boy,' he said, ' at sunset we must 
 part. When the stars come out to-night, 
 I shall not be here.' 
 
 " That was more than I could bear. I 
 hurried to the window, and fell into a 
 paroxysm of tears. A terrible shudder 
 went through my frame, and for the mo- 
 ment I was beside myself. I was ner- 
 vously weakened by the long strain of 
 anxiety, and could bear no more. When 
 I returned to his side, I saw that his lips 
 were trembling, and I reproached myself 
 for my weakness. Who was I, that I 
 should be considered at such a time as 
 that? 
 
 " He stretched out his hand and laid it 
 on mine. ' My boy,' he said, ' God 
 knows best. This parting is hard for you 
 and for me ; but we shall meet again.' 
 
 " ' Father,' I asked, ' have you no fears 
 of death ? ' 
 
 " He slowly shook his head.
 
 "A Little 'Nearer Home." 79 
 
 " ' The way is not dark, my father? ' 
 
 " Again he shook his head. Then his 
 eyes rested apparently on the ceiling; but 
 I knew that he was looking into the Be- 
 yond, and the sweet smile on his lips told 
 me that he saw what I could not see, and 
 that the vision gave him comfort and 
 strength. 
 
 " ' Tell me, dear father,' I cried with un- 
 suppressed emotion, 'tell me all that lies 
 on your heart, all which it is permitted to 
 me to know.' 
 
 " ' My boy,' he whispered, for with every 
 passing moment he was growing weaker, 
 ' in a little while I shall be free. This 
 suffering will be over. I shall be myself 
 again. I shall be like one who leaves the 
 room softly, and closes the door behind 
 him. Perhaps you will hear my footsteps 
 on the other side; but through that closed 
 door you cannot look. You will still be 
 here, and I shall be there. Death means 
 no more than that. My love for you will 
 continue. If the Lord wills, I shall watch
 
 So The Life Beyond. 
 
 over you in the years to come. And when 
 you grow gray, as I am now, and lie, as I 
 lie, on the bed of death, you will see the 
 same open door through which I shall 
 pass, and you will close it behind you, as 
 I must. But when you cross the thresh- 
 old, I will be there, if possible, to meet 
 and greet you.' 
 
 "The hand tightened on mine with some- 
 thing like a convulsive grasp. The change 
 was close at hand. The breathing became 
 irregular, and in a few minutes more he 
 had attained the freedom he longed for, 
 had crossed the threshold, had entered the 
 new life. I was bruised and broken as 
 the consciousness of my loss fell on me 
 with its stunning force; but not for the 
 wealth of the Indies would I part with the 
 dear memory of those closing hours of 
 my father's earthly life." 
 
 Then he said with more emphasis than 
 he was accustomed to use, " That dying 
 man's faith was well founded, or this uni- 
 verse is one vast blunder."
 
 "A Little Nearer Home." 81 
 
 " But, Master," I suggested, " if this life 
 were all, would not such an ending be still 
 glorious? " 
 
 " No, a thousand times no," he an- 
 swered. I saw he was deeply moved. 
 " Life would be like the rocket which 
 rises to midheaven, bursts into many 
 colors, and then goes out in darkness. 
 The deity who devised such a death 
 would simply be an expert in legerde- 
 main. To raise such hopes, to allow 
 them to blossom to maturity, and then 
 to disappoint them, would render it for- 
 ever impossible to utter the Lord's Prayer. 
 Love would be blotted out; and all rela- 
 tions between earth and heaven would 
 abruptly end. With reverence I declare 
 that such a deity would have no claim on 
 our confidence. Death is a serious matter; 
 and at such a time we ought to have no 
 delusions. The materialist solves this 
 grave problem in a way abhorrent to the 
 world's sense of honor. Whatever diffi- 
 culties may attend the acceptance of man's 
 6
 
 82 The Life Beyond. 
 
 immortality, they are as nothing in com- 
 parison with the difficulties which arise 
 when you deny it." 
 
 I gave the logs a vigorous thrust, but 
 stoutly maintained silence. The Master 
 was in deadly earnest, and I feared I 
 might somehow remind him of the late- 
 ness of the hour. I was hungry in soul; 
 and he was throwing into my lap the food 
 I most needed. It does one unspeakable 
 good to listen to a vigorous and unrelent- 
 ing defence of such doctrines. We waver 
 in our faith so constantly that when one 
 stands before us and tells us he believes 
 with every fibre of his being, we are 
 stirred as by martial music, our doubts 
 and fears become ghostly and vanish. 
 
 " Your materialism," he went on, " is 
 weak where it should be strongest. It is 
 a thought without a heart. It robs you of 
 all your valuables, and leaves you a hope- 
 less wreck. You tell me you want the 
 truth, and nothing but the truth. You 
 think you have found it in negation ; you
 
 "A Little Nearer Home." 83 
 
 boast of its possession. That is well. By 
 all means let us have the truth, though the 
 heavens fall. But what better criterion of 
 truth can be found than experiment? If 
 infidelity will produce the highest man- 
 hood, it has a mighty argument in its 
 favor. 
 
 " Put materialism and Christianity shoul- 
 der to shoulder, or, in the parlance of the 
 schools, put the inexorable truth side by 
 side with the delusions in which I believe. 
 Plant your doctrines in one child's soul ; 
 and let me plant mine in the soul of another 
 child. Teach your child that this is the 
 end ; I will teach mine that this is the be- 
 ginning. Tell yours that prayer is useless, 
 that he must rely solely on himself. I 
 will teach mine that the invisible Father 
 is above him, that a holy Providence 
 guards him, that morning and evening he 
 may stretch out his hand, and God will 
 take it and lead him over the rough and 
 dangerous places. 
 
 " Watch the result. The lives of these
 
 84 The Life Beyond. 
 
 two dear ones will be essentially different. 
 The qualities of their characters will be 
 opposed to each other. To the one, the 
 sense of heavenly helpfulness is a negative 
 quantity; to the other, it is a strong staff 
 on which to lean. And when death ap- 
 proaches, the one will regard him as an 
 inexorable tyrant whose decrees are both 
 merciless and heart-rending; while the 
 other wraps the drapery of his couch 
 about him, murmurs with trusting confi- 
 dence, ' Thy will be done/ and falls into 
 a sweet sleep. 
 
 " Your materialism is a misfit garment 
 for the soul, a garment of shreds and 
 patches, neither protecting from the heat 
 of summer nor the cold of winter. Or, to 
 change the figure, it does not furnish food 
 which either satisfies the appetite, or nour- 
 ishes the aspirations. One may accustom 
 himself to such food, but it requires a dis- 
 tinct effort ; and at the very best, it pro- 
 duces moral and spiritual indigestion 
 which induces chronic melancholy. With
 
 "A Little Nearer Home." 85 
 
 unbelief, you simply endure life ; with faith 
 in God, you enjoy life. Nobody ever 
 lived in doubt who would not at any time 
 be glad to get rid of it. Nobody ever 
 had a vital faith who did not feel that it 
 was his most precious possession. 
 
 " Compare the results of these two theo- 
 ries of the universe and you stand face to 
 face with a thrilling and startling fact. 
 Admit that your materialism is true, and 
 that my Christianity is false ; still you are 
 forced to concede that the one develops 
 the noblest qualities of the human charac- 
 ter, and that the other signally fails to do 
 so. Under the one, the soul enlarges and 
 becomes purified ; under the other, it 
 shrinks and becomes desperate. In other 
 words, the world and the soul are so 
 constituted that the alleged delusions 
 of Christianity are worth infinitely more 
 as an incentive to progress, to civili- 
 zation, to orderly society, to philan- 
 thropy, and to that whole range of 
 qualities which we call the virtues, than
 
 86 The Life Beyond. 
 
 is the truth as represented by scientific 
 materialism. 
 
 " And what kind of a universe is it, in 
 which falsehood, an hallucination, can 
 make a nobler manhood than the truth? " 
 
 The Master rose as he uttered this last 
 sentence, and quietly bade me good-night. 
 But I sat before those blazing logs think- 
 ing and wondering until the clock struck 
 two, and then wearily went to bed.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A MARBLE BABE. 
 
 EUBEN NIX'S little one was dead. 
 I went with the Master to the more 
 than humble home of the parents. Reuben 
 was a day laborer with very uncertain 
 work. Sometimes he had enough, and 
 then a joint graced his table ; at other 
 times he had nothing, and then he lived 
 I know not how. He was a rough, brusque, 
 but good-hearted man to whom religion 
 was a far away and foggy mystery. 
 
 We crawled up three dark flights of 
 stairs in one of the lower districts, and 
 then Mary Nix met us at the door. Her 
 face was somewhat hard, for life had been 
 a constant struggle ; but at the sight of 
 my friend, so self-contained, so thoroughly 
 master of the situation, and yet so gentle
 
 88 The Life Beyond. 
 
 and sympathetic, she broke down and 
 buried her face in her apron. 
 
 The Master led her into the half fur- 
 nished sitting-room where Reuben sat 
 glum and despondent, conscious that 
 something strange had happened to him, 
 but not quite knowing what it meant. 
 The child's body lay on the bed in the 
 chamber adjoining ; and the Master, with- 
 out a word, entered and beckoned me to 
 follow. The little one was like a bit of 
 beautifully chiselled marble, and as cold ; 
 but there was a smile on her lips 
 as though she had been welcomed to 
 the heavenly play-ground, and was sur- 
 prised and delighted with her angelic 
 companions. 
 
 Then the hot and pent-up quarters in 
 that lowly and in all respects disagreeable 
 tenement, seemed to fade from my vision. 
 The walls of the chamber melted into thin 
 air, and I heard a voice saying, " Of such 
 is the Kingdom of Heaven." It was deep, 
 mellow, and uplifting; it thrilled me
 
 A Marble Babe. 89 
 
 through and through, and my eyes filled 
 with tears.- I listened awe struck, as the 
 voice continued, " Suffer little children to 
 come unto Me, and forbid them not." 
 The voice of an angel could not have 
 been more persuasive or more pleading. 
 A third time that voice broke on my 
 startled ear, " In my Father's house are 
 many mansions; if it were not so I 
 would have told you." 
 
 The effect was as impressive as the 
 notes of an organ in some great cathe- 
 dral. I could not help trembling from 
 head to foot, for the Master's gentle assur- 
 ance, the solemn majesty of his manner, 
 dissipated all my doubts. My moral fir- 
 mament, erstwhile filled with stars, began 
 to feel the warm glow of the rising sun, 
 and, for the time, heaven not only seemed 
 a grand reality, but death a friendly pres- 
 ence to guide us through the valley of 
 shadows. 
 
 I heard a muffled sob which came from 
 the other room. Mary was weeping as
 
 QO The Life Beyond. 
 
 though her heart would break ; and the 
 lines about Reuben's mouth twitched ner- 
 vously. It was plain that he made a 
 great but vain effort to keep his sorrow 
 under the lock and key of silence. The 
 Master took his place by their side ; while 
 I, quite overcome by the scene, sat in a 
 chair by the window. 
 
 We were so shut in by blank walls that 
 I felt half-suffocated ; and yet as I caught 
 a glimpse of the sky and watched the 
 clouds as they scudded by over the roofs 
 of adjoining buildings, I lost all thought 
 of my surroundings. What is poverty, I 
 said to my soul, if one has heaven in 
 view? What matters it that we have little 
 now, hard work and a crust of bread, 
 if it be true that when the day is over we 
 shall be borne across the flood and enter 
 the land where there is no night, and 
 where there are no tears? 
 
 The Master was silent for a few min- 
 utes. Then he said, " Mary, are you 
 sorry that the little one has gone?"
 
 A Marble Babe. 91 
 
 It seemed a strange question to ask; 
 and the only answer was a wild torrent of 
 weeping. 
 
 "The babe," said Reuben, sturdily, and 
 almost defiantly, " was our only comfort 
 and hope. I 'm a hard working man, 
 Dominie ; and there are not many comforts 
 in life for such as me. Many 's the time, 
 when I growled because I had to handle 
 the pick and spade, I have thought of that 
 baby in her crib, and of the good woman 
 getting my dinner, and come to be satisfied 
 with my lot. It was something to look 
 forward to when we knocked off work, 
 was the laugh of that little one which 
 would welcome me home. I have had 
 hard thoughts, Dominie, because the world 
 hasn't always treated me fairly; but the 
 child has kept me from bearing a grudge. 
 The chuckle of the babe has been better 
 than good luck to me ; but now she 's 
 dead, what can I do?" 
 
 " Reuben," answered the Master, so 
 quietly and gently that I knew he was
 
 92 The Life Beyond. 
 
 dealing with some great verity, " tell me 
 something. You are poor, you say? " 
 
 The strong man pointed to the broken 
 furniture in that stuffy room, to the car- 
 petless floor, to the half-open and empty 
 cupboard. 
 
 " Dominie, if I had money would I 
 live here?" he said. "Poor? ay, and 
 no prospect of anything else. If only I 
 have enough to eat, and a shelter for my 
 head, I am content." 
 . " If some benevolent stranger, who had 
 at his command everything that heart could 
 wish," said the Master, " had come into 
 this home and said to you : ' Reuben, you 
 have a precious jewel in that child. Can 
 you furnish her with all she needs, 
 clothing for her body, tender care and 
 cunning skill if she falls sick, costly 
 teachers who shall develop her mind and 
 make a true woman of her when she grows 
 up?' what would your answer be? " 
 
 " Ah, Dominie," the strong man re- 
 plied, "you hit me hard. My poverty
 
 A Marble Babe. 93 
 
 is not a crime; and I would do the best 
 I could." 
 
 " And suppose this radiant stranger," 
 continued the Master, " should say, 
 ' Reuben, I want you to make a great 
 sacrifice. It will cost you dear, I know, 
 for you love the girl; but because you 
 love her I ask you to make it. Give me 
 the child for a little while. She shall 
 never forget you, and she shall never cease 
 to be your child and Mary's; and in God's 
 good time you shall not only see her again, 
 but live with her. Give her to me, or 
 rather lend her to me, and I will find for 
 her such teachers as you cannot afford. I 
 will see that she is guarded from all temp- 
 tations, and that, when she reaches her 
 youth, she shall fill your father heart with 
 pride.' What answer would you make, 
 Reuben Nix?" 
 
 The poor man stared at the Master, who 
 sat still and unmoved. Hot blood mounted 
 to his cheeks. He drew an old red hand- 
 kerchief across his eyes, and moved rest-
 
 94 The Life Beyond. 
 
 lessly from side to side ; he was utterly 
 dazed, bewildered. A conflict was going 
 on within which shook his frame as an 
 earthquake shakes the ground. As he 
 gazed on the picture which the Master's 
 hand had painted, he became wild to the 
 point 9f desperation; but a reply seemed 
 to be beyond his reach. 
 
 Then the Master spoke again, " What 
 would you say, Reuben? Is your love for 
 the child large enough to give her up? 
 When you came home at night, and heard 
 her baby laugh, was there selfishness in 
 your joy, and did you prize her because 
 she contributed to your happiness alone, 
 or because God had bestowed upon you a 
 priceless gift to be protected by your 
 strong arm, and to be cherished by your 
 warm heart? Could you give her to the 
 stranger's keeping that she might receive 
 what you could not give her?" 
 
 "Ay, Dominie; I think I would have 
 put her into the stranger's arms," replied 
 Reuben, after a little, " and said, ' Take
 
 A Marble Babe. 95 
 
 her, but let me feel sure that she is safe. 
 Take her, and let her have what her father 
 can't buy; but don't let her grow away 
 from me and her mother. That is all I 
 ask.' " 
 
 " Reuben," said the Master, " the Stranger 
 has been here." 
 
 " No, Dominie ; no man has crossed this 
 threshold." 
 
 "Yes, He came; but you did not see 
 Him, Reuben. He thought it better not 
 to ask your consent to the parting; but 
 He took the child, and she is safe in His 
 keeping." 
 
 " Dominie," cried Reuben, " who was 
 He?" 
 
 " It was the Christ," replied the Master, 
 solemnly, " He has taken the babe to 
 heaven. It was a wise thing to do, or it 
 would not have been done. It is well 
 with the child; for she lives in a man- 
 sion not made with hands, and He who 
 came in the watches of the night and 
 bore her away, asks you to have such
 
 g6 The Life Beyond. 
 
 faith that you can say, ' Thy will, not 
 mine, be done.' " 
 
 As the Master and I sat before the 
 blazing fire that night he said, " The soul 
 is the elusive reality of the universe." 
 
 " Master," I said, " it seems hard to be 
 snatched from the very threshold of life." 
 
 " In God's providence," he replied, 
 " nothing is taken before its time." 
 
 " And did that child," I asked, " achieve 
 its whole mission in this world within its 
 thirteen months of sunshine?" 
 
 " If you will tell me what its mission 
 was," he answered, " I can make reply. 
 Do you know? Does any man know? 
 If the child was not given to the parents, 
 but only loaned to their love; and the 
 object was to draw their hearts away from 
 the things of this life to the things of the 
 other life, then I should judge from what 
 I saw this afternoon that the little one's 
 career was a complete and perfectly 
 rounded one. One cannot believe in God
 
 A Marble Babe. 97 
 
 without believing that He makes no mis- 
 takes. You may have seventy years al- 
 lotted to you ; another may have only as 
 many days. The amount of time spent 
 here has nothing to do with the problem. 
 An oak lives for a couple of centuries ; but 
 the rose-bush does all that is required of 
 it in a single season. The lion may roam 
 the forests for many winters and summers ; 
 but the microscopic atom in a drop of 
 water does its entire work and dies in 
 a single afternoon. It is not length of 
 days, but perfect work, that renders life 
 valuable." 
 
 " But is there not something peculiarly 
 disappointing," I asked, " in the death of 
 a child?" 
 
 " Death," he answered, " never comes 
 without bringing disappointment. Hopes 
 always wither after his visit. He is never 
 gladly welcomed ; it would be impossible 
 to receive him with rejoicing, God does 
 not require it. But we can receive him 
 with resignation ; that is our duty. There 
 7
 
 98 The Life Beyond. 
 
 is, however, something beautiful in the 
 death of a babe. Its little soul has never 
 been marred by a thought of sin; it is 
 fresh from the hands of creative power; 
 it has nothing to unlearn, nothing to re- 
 gret, nothing that calls for repentance. 
 From the bosom of the Father in heaven 
 to the bosom of the mother on earth, and 
 thence, with loving kisses on its lips, back 
 to the Father's bosom again. 
 
 " I have no doubt that the discipline of 
 this life is very necessary; but if there 
 are instances in which it is not necessary, 
 those souls are to be congratulated. 
 
 " One of the most painful anxieties of 
 parents is lest their children, either as 
 children, or men and women, may be en- 
 tangled in the web of temptation and fall 
 a prey to moral ruin. If you could sat- 
 isfy a father that his son would never 
 stoop to dishonor, would always wear his 
 reputation as a precious jewel, you would 
 increase the happiness of home by one 
 half.
 
 A Marble Babe. 99 
 
 " The most painful incident in life is 
 when a child who has been reared with 
 prayerful affection breaks away from the 
 protecting influences of home, leaps into 
 the sea of passion and pleasure, resists all 
 efforts to save him, and goes down with 
 a crime on his soul. Earth has many 
 tragedies, but few as pitiful as that. 
 
 " It is hard to say good-by to a little 
 one before the words of welcome have 
 left our lips; but if, from some high van- 
 tage-ground, we could view the future and 
 see that some accident or disease might 
 fatally injure his body or his mind, we 
 should regard death as a friend rather 
 than an enemy. This privilege is not 
 granted us; but we can soothe our sorrow 
 with a firm faith that the Almighty's plan 
 is both wide and long, and that He seeks 
 the good of all His people by every 
 decree of His providence. 
 
 "The bereaved pay an unconscious 
 tribute to the wisdom and goodness of 
 God. When a little one lies on its bier,
 
 ioo The Life Beyond. 
 
 the parents are well-nigh broken-hearted ; 
 sometimes they are driven to the very 
 verge of despair. They may even rebel, 
 and, with a certain defiance of attitude, 
 arraign the love of God ; but were the 
 prerogative granted them of calling back 
 that child, they would hesitate long before 
 exercising it. The feeling prevails every- 
 where, at such a time, that though the 
 purpose of the sorrow is hidden, it has a 
 purpose. They cannot see that what is 
 best has happened ; but in their heart of 
 hearts they feel that it must be so. They 
 would not take the responsibility such 
 is their unselfish love for the one who 
 has gone of recalling him from heaven 
 to earth. 
 
 " Children are the uplifting influence of 
 every home." 
 
 By this time there were only embers in 
 the fireplace, and even they were going 
 to sleep ; so the Master and I parted.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A FLY IN THE BELFRY. 
 
 ~l T was one of the coldest nights of one 
 of the coldest winters we had had for 
 many a year. The sky was without a 
 cloud; and the stars shone with a crisp 
 and dazzling brilliancy. It seemed a gala 
 occasion in the regions above; and the 
 heavenly lanes and highways were crowded 
 by a multitude of worlds which vied with 
 each other in gorgeous apparel. 
 
 Moreover the great Beyond seemed to 
 have dropped down into the neighbor- 
 hood of the earth, very much as a mother 
 bends over the cradle of her child when 
 she sings the evening lullaby. There are 
 times when the heavens appear to be far 
 away, so far that we forget that they 
 and we belong to the same family. We
 
 102 The Life Beyond. 
 
 seem to have been put aside into some 
 corner of the universe, while the grand 
 procession moves in imperial splendor at 
 such a distance that we have no part or 
 lot in it. At other times tney come close 
 to us, and we feel that it would only be a 
 short step from us to them. On this par- 
 ticular night they \vere within ear-shot of 
 the Master and me, as we sat by that 
 blazing fire and talked of the soul's other 
 Home. The wind shook our windows, 
 and piled huge snow-drifts in front of the 
 door ; but the hickory logs in the big fire- 
 place chirped as merrily as ever, and defied 
 the cold to invade the room. 
 
 " The great questions, Master," I said, 
 "upon which everything depends are, 
 What is heaven; and, Where is it?" 
 
 " Xo ; I think not," he replied. " What, 
 and where heaven is, is a matter of slight 
 importance. We can well afford to leave 
 such things to the imagination. Once 
 assure us that there is a heaven, and that 
 we shall enter into the glories thereof at
 
 A Fly in the Belfry. 103 
 
 death, and we can rest satisfied with- 
 out demanding geographical or social 
 details." 
 
 " But have you no curiosity, Master? " 
 I persisted. 
 
 " I can hardly say that I have, my 'son. 
 Sometimes I dream about its employments 
 and pleasures ; and once in a while I have 
 indulged in speculation concerning its bat- 
 tlements and gates and streets and tem- 
 ples, and the throng of redeemed beings 
 who cry, ' Holy ! ' But as a general thing 
 my mind is entirely passive and quiescent. 
 I am not quite sure that I wish to know 
 what heaven is like, or what I shall do 
 when I get there. I confess that it is such 
 a privilege to feel that I shall sometime 
 cross its golden threshold, that my grati- 
 tude and joy fill me full, and there is no 
 desire to have it minutely described as the 
 traveller describes Italy or Persia or India; 
 I rather prefer to have all these things left 
 as a surprise." 
 
 " That seems an odd view to take," I
 
 to4 The Life Beyond. 
 
 said. " I think few would agree with you, 
 Master." 
 
 " If asking questions meant the receipt 
 of an answer," he replied, " I might appre- 
 ciate your state of mind. But of what use 
 is it to ask a question when God has hid- 
 den the answer where no man can find it? 
 And since it is impossible to have your 
 curiosity satisfied, why irritate yourself 
 to no purpose? You have been told all 
 that is necessary for you to know, a 
 great deal. The promise has been given 
 that we shall live again. A few sentences 
 have fallen on your ears which show 
 plainly enough that the conditions of the 
 Hereafter are beyond your conception. 
 Two facts have been vouchsafed, you 
 will be transported at death to another 
 home, where there shall be neither night 
 nor tears; and you will there dwell amid 
 surroundings such as no eye hath seen. 
 Are not these facts enough for the 
 present? 
 - " Along the streets of the Celestial City
 
 A Fly in the Belfry. 105 
 
 the rumbling wheels of the hearse shall 
 never be heard. The many mansions, on 
 either side of its great thoroughfares are 
 sunlit homes in which tears and sorrow are 
 unknown. The struggle for food and rai- 
 ment will be over; the strifes and conten- 
 tions which are our dismay and our de- 
 spair in this life will be buried in the grave 
 of time. It is such a place that our pres- 
 ent ideal of happiness will seem common- 
 place and unworthy; for anxiety,- sickness, 
 pain, and weariness will be done away." 
 
 " And all that, Master, stimulates my 
 imagination. Knowing so much, it seems 
 a great grievance that I should not know 
 more." 
 
 " But these facts lie as it were in the 
 suburbs of heaven," he continued. " I 
 have already hurled you into the midst 
 of the inconceivable ; and your flight is 
 aimless and without result. If more were 
 told, you could not understand it. Heaven 
 would not be heaven if it could be de- 
 scribed in terms of human experience.
 
 io6 The Life Beyond. 
 
 It is heaven because it is beyond the 
 reach of thought. When I say, ' There 
 shall be no night there,' can your utmost 
 effort grasp such a condition of things? 
 When I add, ' There shall be no tears 
 there,' have you the dimmest apprehen- 
 sion of what the words mean? Human 
 language has no terms in which to convey 
 the truth about it; and human thought 
 has no appliance by which it can be 
 comprehended. We have certain hints, 
 but nothing more. 
 
 " There is an old rabbinical legend, and 
 it runs thus: When Joseph was prime 
 minister to Pharaoh, during the period of 
 the famine, he emptied the chaff of his 
 granaries into the Nile. It floated far 
 away on the moving current; and the 
 people on the bank at a distance saw it. 
 It was only chaff; but it meant that there 
 was corn in plenty somewhere. Chaff 
 always means corn ; and yet the chaff is 
 worthless. You could not persuade those 
 people that they were mistaken. They
 
 A Fly in the Belfry. 107 
 
 were suffering the pangs of hunger, and 
 supposed that the famine extended 
 throughout the country, and that every- 
 body was as hungry as themselves. But 
 that floating chaff was a revelation. They 
 were sure that if their strength would en- 
 able them to reach the point at which it 
 had been thrown into the river, they 
 would find plenty for themselves and their 
 famishing families. 
 
 " The parallelism is faulty in many re- 
 spects ; but, imperfect as it is, it serves my 
 purpose." 
 
 " You mean," I said somewhat hastily, 
 for I saw the drift of his argument, " that 
 the thought of heaven implies the exist- 
 ence of heaven." 
 
 " Somewhat more even than that, my 
 son," he replied ; " the existence of heaven 
 is a fact conceded. What it is, and what 
 will be our occupation there, we get a 
 glimpse of these things in strange ways. 
 Adown the stream of time come floating 
 to our heart's doors certain dreams of
 
 io8 The Life Beyond. 
 
 bliss, reunion with those we have loved 
 and lost; the longing for rest; the instinc- 
 tive assurance that when we are freed from 
 the handicap of flesh and disease we can 
 develop dormant faculties and satisfy un- 
 gratified desires for holiness. The race 
 as a race has enjoyed these hopes since 
 it first began to struggle. They are the 
 chaff; but the corn which is higher up the 
 stream, in the granaries of God, will be 
 ours in the by-and-by." 
 
 " But is it not strange, Master, that we 
 are not endowed with a sixth sense by 
 means of which we might get some glim- 
 mer of these grand realities?" 
 
 " In Europe once," he answered, " I 
 went into the bell-tower of a famous 
 cathedral; and on the rim of one of the 
 huge bells I saw a fly. Suppose that lit- 
 tle insect to be gifted with reasoning 
 powers as wide as the fullest range of 
 its possibilities. He might hear the awful 
 din of the chimes, but could he discover 
 that each sound was a musical note, that
 
 A Fly in the Belfry. 109 
 
 it was related to other notes, and that the 
 whole was a hymn of gladness? 
 
 " If the plan of the building, the pur- 
 pose for which it was used, were to be ex- 
 plained to him by the words contained in 
 his fly vocabulary, and these would be 
 the only means of communication, could 
 he be made to understand them ? Would 
 it be possible to convey to him any ade- 
 quate idea of the architect; of the founda- 
 tions on which the structure rests ; of the 
 many colored windows, each symbolical 
 of some historic event; of the huge organ, 
 which makes the air throb until the heart 
 is melted into reverence ; of the robed 
 priest at the altar, and of the hopes, the 
 warnings, the consolations, which his office 
 represents? Though he did his best to 
 comprehend, your language would be as 
 mysterious as a problem of Calculus to a 
 newly born child. Any attempt to make 
 him understand these things in their 
 right relations would be utterly out of the 
 question.
 
 no The Life Beyond. 
 
 " If he were to investigate matters 
 without the aid of a teacher, or co-ex- 
 plorer, and should take his flight from 
 belfry to dome, from dome to nave, from 
 nave to apse, from organ to altar, and 
 should then deduce a theory from the 
 the facts thus attained, would it not be 
 necessarily full of errors? Would he be 
 mentally capable of doing justice to the 
 subject? However honest he might be 
 in the endeavor to get at the exact truth, 
 and however persevering, it would still 
 remain true that no fly, though gifted 
 with extraordinary genius, could under 
 any circumstances acquire a realizing 
 sense of the grandeur or the significance 
 of the edifice he was exploring. His 
 philosophy would, after all, be only a fly's 
 philosophy. He would grope helplessly 
 through the vast problem, make a thou- 
 sand mistakes, and inevitably reach at last 
 a wholly inadequate conclusion. 
 
 " Now, suppose further, that some supe- 
 rior being should be specially commis-
 
 A Fly in the Belfry. 1 1 1 
 
 sioned to explain the uses of the edifice 
 to the little insect. He would of course 
 be compelled to use terms which expressed 
 something within the fly's experience; 
 otherwise it would be a mere description 
 of a rainbow's coloring to a blind man 
 who cannot conceive of red and violet 
 and orange. What would happen? The 
 fly might listen ; he might have every con- 
 fidence in his teacher, but he would be 
 nevertheless intellectually confused. The 
 best that could be done would be to ap- 
 peal to his imagination ; but even that is 
 limited, and the pictures would be nothing 
 better than a radiance far beyond his 
 reach. 
 
 " We are but superior flies in this God- 
 made cathedral of the universe. With our 
 unaided strength we have won proud vic- 
 tories. We have wrenched from many of 
 the stars their secrets; have dived into 
 the bowels of the earth and brought up 
 many a strange story ; have roamed hither 
 and yon, and collected such glorious facts
 
 ii2 The Life Beyond. 
 
 from which to construct a theory of crea- 
 tion that we are amazed at our own success. 
 But far beyond us, out of reach of our 
 mightiest endeavor, the greatest mystery 
 of all hides itself from our near-sighted- 
 ness. We comprehend much, and that 
 excites our curiosity to discover more ; 
 but creative force is still, and always will 
 remain, the despair of science. 
 
 " We have longings ; and we search 
 until we find the wherewithal to satisfy 
 them. We grow hungry ; and behold, the 
 food is at hand. We love ; and soon dis- 
 cover some one who accepts our affection. 
 We have ambitions; and the means of 
 gratifying them are not at too great a 
 distance. '. We therefore reach the conclu- 
 sion that all natural aspirations imply the 
 existence of something which will meet 
 their demands. We long intensely and 
 painfully for a continuance of life after 
 what seems to us the end of all things has 
 come. That longing is a component part 
 of our nature. The barbarian has it; he
 
 A Fly in the Belfry. 113 
 
 buries his friend, and then kills that 
 friend's dogs and horses, and lays his 
 bow and arrows in his grave in the full 
 belief that he will have use for them in 
 the happy hunting-grounds of the future. 
 { Shall all else be granted us, and this 
 chiefest of our hopes be denied? 
 
 " And yet when one attempts to get a 
 clear idea of that future life, he fails, pre- 
 cisely as the fly fails to get an idea of the 
 cathedral. And no language can describe 
 it because its conditions are as different as 
 those into which the butterfly enters after 
 the grub dies and the new creature breaks 
 through the chrysalis." 
 
 " Master," I cried with some degree of 
 vehemence, " is the other life indeed so 
 glorious that it is practically unthinkable? 
 Do you mean that? " 
 
 " Therein lies the goodness of God," he 
 answered. " If our future home were a 
 palace of marble in place of the thatched 
 cottage of this present life; and if our 
 happiness, were to consist of rich viands, 
 8
 
 ii4 The Life Beyond. 
 
 the unalloyed gratification of our physical 
 passions, sweet revenge against our ene- 
 mies, and such things as are either within 
 our daily experience or observation, then 
 we should readily understand the life after 
 the resurrection. But God's goodness and 
 wisdom have with boundless prodigality 
 prepared something infinitely higher and 
 infinitely better; and because it is higher 
 and better, so much so that we cannot 
 possibly understand it, we halt and hesitate 
 and even indulge in doubts." 
 
 I was silent, for the Master was wrest- 
 ling with mighty thoughts. There was 
 one question, however, which still weighed 
 on my heart. The clock struck midnight; 
 but one word more I must have, or sleep 
 would never come to me again. 
 
 " Tell me," I said at length, " tell me, 
 Master, shall we know our loved ones on 
 the other side? " 
 
 " You should be able to answer that 
 question yourself, my son," he replied. 
 "Indeed, if what I have said is true, it
 
 A Fly in the Belfry, 115 
 
 answers itself. Shall \ve know less in the 
 Hereafter than we do now? What is the 
 significance of immortality, if it means 
 forgetfulness? Of what use is immortality, 
 if we lose our identity? How can this life 
 be a preparation for the next, if death 
 obliterates all memory of it? You send 
 your boy to a primary school, where he 
 gets the rudiments of an education. At 
 the proper time he is removed, and sent 
 to better equipped teachers, that he may 
 struggle with larger problems. Suppose 
 your act of removal from the primary 
 department had some magic in it by which 
 all knowledge already obtained was torn 
 from his mind and thrown away, would 
 the boy ever be educated? Would not 
 the fundamental principles of education 
 be destroyed? 
 
 " My father told me on his death-bed, 
 when he laid his hand on my head in fare- 
 well, that he would meet me on the other 
 shore. He will do it, if it is possible ; and 
 immortality means nothing unless it is
 
 n6 Tie Life Beyond. 
 
 possible. It is one of the joys to which 
 I look forward; and I am sure I shall not 
 be disappointed." 
 
 He left me ; but my heart repeated again 
 and again these words from the German : 
 
 " O Land ! O Land ! 
 To all the broken-hearted, 
 The mildest herald by our faith allotted 
 Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 
 To lead us with a gentle hand 
 Into the land of the Departed, 
 Into the Silent Land." 
 
 THE END.