Her eyes wandered wildly around the room, and at last, reassured by a sight of familiar objects, lost their look of affright. “It must have been a dream,” she said, “but so very real. I was lying under the elm tree at home, as I so often did when a child; yet I was as I am now. Close about me came a little company of people shining like the sun. When they were very near, I knew them to be people from my planet--my own people, whom I remember well, and whom I saw in a dream years ago. One, a woman, the most beautiful of all, had a face so familiar I almost spoke her name; but I could not quite grasp it, though she seemed very near and dear to me. “‘Your work is done,’ she said; and there was sadness in her voice, and pity in her eyes. “‘Well done?’ I questioned, though with a sinking of the heart, for I began to be afraid, I knew not why. “‘Did you always do your best?’ she asked. “‘No;’ I answered, conscience-smitten. “‘Then’-- “I interrupted, for I could not bear to hear what I feared she would say. “‘Who art thou, who look so pitiful and seem so dear, and whom I yet fear?’ I asked. “‘I am thine Ideal--thine Angel of Judgment--who hath so often come to thee and from whom thou hast almost as often turned away.’ “‘But I serve you now,’ I cried. ‘I do my best. I have learned my lesson.’ “‘Yes, you have learned the lesson, and will do better next time,’ she said, compassionately. “‘Next time?’ I echoed, trembling with fear. “‘Yes; next time, for you must come again and do it over and do it right,’ she said, sternly. “Then I shrieked and awoke. O Lilla, now I see, I know, I understand. I must live my life again and live it better--must do my best all the way through. I don’t want to--no; I don’t want to; but I must, and so must all who fail to give their best--not as penalty, but because it is the only way to learn, and to grow. “We have lived always; we shall live always. This is the foundation rock upon which we build the indestructible temple, character. Victor Hugo spoke of life as a fairy tale a thousand times written, and said there was not an age in which he could not find his spirit. He believed he would exist forever, inasmuch as he felt in his soul thousands of songs, and dramas that never had found expression: He was sure he should come again and give them life. I, too, feel within me numberless tales untold which must be born somewhere. A great soul, like Hugo, may voluntarily come again and again to help others; but a recreant dreamer like me MUST come.