A thought of kindred saddened the heart of Atma. In the loss of parents and brethren lay, he thought, the sole cause of the heaviness that oppressed him. Their restoration would have made existence complete. He had lost them before he had awakened to the knowledge that those we love are even, when nearest, very far away. Humanity does not hear the voice of kindred on earth. I find In all the earth Like things with like combined, How happy, happy from their birth Are silly things, in guileless mirth Who seek them out and greatly love their kind. How e'en The crafty snake, Like dove of gentle mien, Doth with his fellows converse take The love-notes well from wood and brake That tell betwixt some lives some barriers intervene. Ah me, Shall only one Of golden things that be, One only underneath the sun In dolour here life's journey run, Speeding the way alone to great Eternity? The Soul It sits apart, Craving a prison dole Of ruth and healing for its hurt, As piteous captive should cajole, Vainly, unheeding ear afar in stranger mart. FOOTNOTE: [1] That this incident is suggested by Hans Andersen's beautiful story is so evident as scarcely to need acknowledgment. The thoughts embodied here occurred to me in such early childhood that I do not experience a sense of guilt in thus appropriating the lesson which I have no doubt the writer intended. CHAPTER VIII. One night Atma dreamed a dream which greatly disturbed his waking thoughts. He lay in the shadow of an overhanging rock, and in deep sleep fancied that he descried therein a door which was securely barred. But although it was closed, there issued from it aroma of most subtle perfumes, which seemed to enter the brain and incite the energies to a maddening desire of possession, while there floated around him strains of music whose sweetness filled the soul with sorrow of itself. In his dream he tried the heavy bolts in vain. All was fast. He yielded to despair, and dashed himself against the rocky portal in anguish of disappointment. But grief wore itself out, and he thought that he presently lay on the ground, bruised and exhausted. The charmed fragrance still enwrapt him, and the seductive melody filled the air. Sad and benumbed he yielded himself to their influence, and his ear then detected in the ethereal harmony an articulate utterance. An ineffable intonation melodiously spoke: "It opes to a key that is golden, Within it a spirit lies folden, The soul of all matchless delight. All graces familiar or olden, Propitious thine entrance invite."