During the time of my wanderings in the spirit world, it happened that I had occasion to speak to one to whom I was personally unknown, but who had lived for many years in a country town in which I had myself once resided. Though comparatively guiltless, as I learned he was, of any criminal offence, he seemed to be incessantly consumed by a spirit of strange unrest, and I noticed that, even in his moments of reprieve, he appeared unable to free himself from some singularly disturbing thought. I was aware that he had at one time been intimate with a former neighbour of mine, and something in our conversation recalling this man's name to my memory I asked my companion if he knew "what had become of Henry Marshall?" The words had scarcely fallen from my lips before there passed over his features a spasm of uncontrollable fear, and with a quick gasping cry, and covering his face with his hand, as if to shut out some ghastly vision, he exclaimed: "He is dead; he is dead--but why do you speak of him? Know you not that he is of the dead who die?" "Of the dead who die?" I repeated wonderingly; "I do not understand you. Surely all who are dead must die?" To this he made no answer, and seeing that he was strangely moved, I forbore to question him further, but by-and-by he became calmer and of his own accord continued the conversation. "You asked me about Henry Marshall," he said, "and I will tell you all I know about him; but first let me explain that, next to the love of money which has been my ruin, my sorest hindrance on earth was my unbelief and faithlessness; and that here in hell the punishment of the unbeliever is that he shall be consumed by the anguish of his own unbelief. Once when I _might_ have believed, I would not, and now, though I would believe, I cannot, but am for ever torn by hideous apprehensions and doubts as to my own future and the future of those dear to me. Moreover, there are many things which, clear and plain as they may be to the faithful of heart and to the believing, are to my doubting eyes wrapt around in mystery and in gloom. Into these mysteries it has been ordained as part of my punishment that I shall ever desire to look, and of all these mysteries there is not one which fills me with such abject horror and dread as the mystery of the dead who die." "Of the dead who die?" I said again; "what do you mean by those strange words?"