For Cartice the pain of parting from her friend was intensified by the knowledge that it meant loss of opportunity to talk with her beloved unseen people. The Butterfly was a telephone to the other world whose like might never be met again. They spent the last evening together. Their invisible friends understood what was determined upon, without any telling. Prescott was asked if he had any suggestions to make in regard to Cartice’s plans. “It is not for us to direct you,” he said. “You must steer your own bark. That is the business of life. The field is wide, and you have your place therein and will find it. Don’t be discouraged. We shall be often with you, and shall keep an eye on you.” The evening was one long to be remembered by the two who were so soon to be separated, tinged as it was with the melancholy that colors all last occasions. The final glimpse Cartice had of the place that had been to her a city of sorrow as well as of light, showed her the Butterfly waving a loving and tearful adieu. Dear Butterfly! Was there ever so charming a combination of vanity, love of pleasure, earthly prettiness and goddess-like ability to do wondrous things? Cartice settled herself for her journey, feeling somewhat as a soul might who had just issued from one very difficult and wretched incarnation and knew that in a few hours it must begin another, which in all probability would prove more difficult and more wretched. It takes courage to face the mouths of cannon; yet that, though horrible, lasts not long. But the woman who, alone and unknown, goes into the mixed and frightful mass of humankind represented by a great city, to seek a chance to earn honest bread, displays a courage besides which that of the bravest soldier must lose a little of its luster. And any one who makes her hard road harder, builds for himself a wall which will not be easy to scale; he is but lengthening the period of his own spiritual evolution. The train rolled on, its wheels beating a steady rhythm like the feet of flying horses, their vibrations striking the sick heart of the weary woman inside, and making it quake with terror. She had kept a smiling face before the Butterfly clear to the last; but now that she was alone--at least unknown to her fellow travelers, hence secure from intrusion, her courage evaporated, and she curled up on her sofa, a mere lump of suffering. As the telegraph posts flew by she pictured herself taken out, tied to one and shot dead by balls from many rifles, and earnestly wished she could exchange her present situation for such brief pain. Is this world hell? The query had come to her before, and now it challenged her boldly. Whose happiness or safety was secure for the morrow?