The next day I am so light of heart and light of step, I take trust that my old statue heaviness cannot again weigh me down. Initiated to the schools, as the place where all work, (Arc life above, mostly a recreation) I become alert to choose an industry. Saucy arriving, takes from her pocket silk and needle, deftly fashions a butterfly, which she affixes, waving to my shoulder. As I ask: “What can I do?” “O, you can print the books you write, you know. And Charley,” laughing, “can paint.” The days fly swiftly by. The sun has rounded down toward the horizon. Twilight is our only day. Clouds skim the blue sky. Cream foam in portend of storm, driving us to the warmth of the towers that are now getting a layer of arctic protection. Bright days only let us out to tour the cities, making the round trip roundly. Each tour develops a new specialty, marvelous and absorbing our interest. Though the upper sky, out of the crevasse, is getting a soft black color, still the air around has a light of its own that is not artificial in any sense—proceeding from the center aurora, that is becoming oftener in action. Scanning it closely one day, as I am returning home, I mistake the door and curiously look around at the grand hall in which I find myself. The walls, like all others, shining and sparkling, are here, strangely glimmering and glinting, quite dazing my eyes. I ask a slim little Arc maid I see walking about in absorbed fashion, “What place is this?” “Holy Hall,” is her impressive reply. “Then you have a church after all. Do you pray to God?” “Not in words as you. God knows before.” “Then what is Holy Hall?” I persist. “Where people are holy.” “O, what makes it glisten so?” “It holy spiritualizes all within.” “Then no evil spirits can come to this communion of saints.” Quite bestows comfort and relief. The walls are landscaped in crackled scenery, and at intervals against their centers aloft, are fastened most gorgeous state chairs, supported by brackets that have a separate and more distinct gleam. I turn again quickly, awed to inquire. I look into the face of Savant, who is intently regarding my expression. “The chairs,” I say, “are they alive?” “Yes,” he replies, “to make the dead alive, who will come to sit in them.” “O, is this where Roban saw the scientific angel?” I rigidly regard the one nearest to me to see it being occupied by a familiar face and form. (Familiar by engraving). “It is _George Washington_.” A hand appears from the air, resting on his arm, which slowly materializes the form to which it is attached. I open my mouth in awe, for I recognize again President Lincoln—the _martyr_, as joining him in touch appear his generals. My memory goes back to that struggle of civil strength, at the sight. Then I strive to awaken myself, as though I must have fallen strangely asleep, scarcely believing the illusion before me.