When talking with Cartice one evening, Lilla Joy said: “If we did not _know_ that we outlast death and have endless life before us, Burton and I would end our troubles and our children’s too, perhaps. It would require less courage than we need for one day of life now. But we _know_ that we can’t kill ourselves, however much we might try because there is no death. In spite of bullets, knives, poisons and rivers, we should still be alive, wondering, no doubt, why we were so blind as to think we could destroy that which is indestructible. No; our salvation must be worked out clear to the end, uncomplainingly. We are here to learn, and must stay until we are ready to go higher. At the longest, our probation is short, and it means so much to us. We are building the edifice of character, which is to last for all time. This little chapter of existence is but a day in the great cycle. No; I shall not give up; I shall never despair, let come what may.” Day succeeded day, but no brighter outlook opened, yet never were they seen with a cloud on their faces. Though their purses were empty, friendship and compassion kept away bitter need, and their spirits were sweet enough to accept the goods the gods sent without letting their pride be wounded. It needs a sweeter spirit to receive than to give. At last a foothold on the stage was gained for both--an opportunity more likely to increase humility than foster vanity, but they accepted it thankfully, and it led on to better things. All went well for a time; but one day a telegram came announcing the dangerous illness of their children, who had fallen victims to an epidemic. They went at once. The children died, and a few days later their father also closed his eyes to this world. Lilla returned to New York to go on with the grim business of life. Was the joy gone from her face? No; it was still there, softened, heightened and illumined by a new and holy light. “Dear friend,” she said, as she and Cartice talked together on the evening of her return, “there are three new graves in the old cemetery at home, but they do not hold my husband and children. That which each contains is an unreality, a thing never destined to endure,--a garment which the real being wore to make itself seen by our dim eyes. Alice Carey has described it well: Though you wore something earthly about you Which once we called you-- A robe all transparent and brightened With the soul shining through. But when you had dropped it in going-- ’Twas but yours for a day-- Safe back in the bosom of Nature, We laid it away. Strewing over it odorous blossoms, Their perfume to shed: But you never were buried beneath them, And never were dead.