“You told me long ago that I came to help,” she answered, “but they made it very hard. When I wrote that which burned within my soul they cared not to hear it, but wanted something that entertained and diverted them from what they call the cares of life; and I--well, I was often hungry--so I gave them what they wanted.” “And did they reward you?” “You see I have nothing,” she answered. “For a time I had some of the possessions all value so much; but they are gone.” “You tried to tell these people what you thought and felt, but they would not listen, you say; so you told them little foolish tales, like those that please children, but instruct not, help not, and thus you passed your life neglecting to unfold your own soul by expressing it truly. Only the weak and feeble of will, or the indolent and indifferent, turn back at the first obstacle. Where was your faith?” “I sold it, as you see, for a pitiful price,” she answered, weeping. “And were you satisfied?” “Never. My conscience always lashed me. I have been punished already. Give me no further penance.” “It is not ours to punish or pardon, nor in all the universe is there either punishment or pardon. There is only unchangeable, ever-active law. Had you done your work well”-- “What is it to do one’s work well?” she interrupted. And now the woman of the glorious face came near and answered: “It is to give the highest and best that is in you, without caring whether it will please or offend; to express truth, as you see it, though the world be against you; to pay whatever price is asked, though it be starvation and disgrace for the freedom of your soul, for the soul is only free when it faithfully follows its IDEAL.” “Then I know I have not done my work well,” said the woman, sadly. “I seldom gave my best. I had not the courage. I was afraid the price I would have to pay would be too high. But what is the fate of those who do not do their work well?” The faces of the company were full of pity, as they answered, “They must do it over again.” Then the woman wept aloud. “But not just yet,” they said. “You are very tired; your strength is gone. You shall rest for a time.” Then one touched her eyes gently, and they closed to the light of this world! Helen, dearest, I dreamed that story, and I was the woman who did not do her best. It always seems to me that I lived long ago somewhere--many lives perhaps. At times I can almost remember scenes and people of that far-off time. It may be that it was right here in this world, and that I have been sent back to do what I left undone. Or it may be that here in this life I shall not do what I ought to do, and must come again. Ever with me is the thought that there is some particular thing for me to do and that I must make haste to find it and do it, because the time is short. Part of my work is to find my people--thy own people whom I knew in that far-away life, you are one of them, and--