"But surely you are to see the Emperor in the Place in the Sun," said Marguerite when she had returned the geography to the secret shelf. "I have already seen him," I replied, "my ticket was for the first performance." "It must be a magnificent sight," she sighed. "I should so love to see the sunlight. The pictures show us His Majesty's likeness, but what is a picture of sunlight?" "But you speak only of a reflected beam; how would you like to see real sunshine?" "Oh, on the roof of Berlin? But that is only for Royalty and the roof guards. I've tried to imagine that, but I know that I fail as a blind man must fail to imagine colour." "Close your eyes," I said playfully, "and try very hard." Solemnly Marguerite closed her eyes. For a moment I smiled, and then the smile relaxed, for I felt as one who scoffs at prayer. "And did you see the sunlight?" I asked, as she opened her eyes and gazed at me with dilated pupils. "No," she answered hoarsely, "I only saw man-light as far as the walls of Berlin, and beyond that it was all empty blackness--and it frightens me." "The fear of darkness," I said, "is the fear of ignorance." "You try," and she reached over with a soft touch of her finger tips on my closing eyelids. "Now keep them closed and tell me what you see. Tell me it is not all black." "I see light," I said, "white light, on a billowy sea of clouds, as from a flying plane.... And now I see the sun--it is sinking behind a rugged line of snowy peaks and the light is dimming.... It is gone now, but it is not dark, for moonlight, pale and silvery, is shimmering on a choppy sea.... Now it is the darkest hour, but it is never black, only a dark, dark grey, for the roof of the world is pricked with a million points of light.... The grey of the east is shot with the rose of dawn.... The rose brightens to scarlet and the curve of the sun appears--red like the blood of war.... And now the sky is crystal blue and the grey sands of the desert have turned to glittering gold." I had ceased my poetic visioning and was looking into Marguerite's face. The light of worship I saw in her eyes filled me with a strange trembling and holy awe. "And I saw only blackness," she faltered. "Is it that I am born blind and you with vision?" "Perhaps what you call vision is only memory," I said--but, as I realized where my words were leading, I hastened to add--"Memory, from another life. Have you ever heard of such a thing as the reincarnation of the soul?" "That means," she said hesitatingly, "that there is something in us that does not die--immortality, is it not?"