If I had loved Margaret before, then the feeling I now had was something else, it was so different. But it was nothing else, and, therefore, I was obliged to conclude that I had lived all these years with a false notion in my head. As the song changed now and then, but did not stop, my heart swelled with its strong emotion, and I had the greatest difficulty to keep my promise and remain quiet. At length the music ceased, and I jumped from my chair with the intention of giving Margaret some palpable sign of my new love, when I was arrested by her warning hand and these words: “Wait, Walter, someone is coming. I can see all you want to tell me in your face.” I was obliged to stop, and reserve for a more private place any violent manifestation of my exuberant affection, but answered quietly: “Not all, dear Margaret. You will never know all my love.” There was now more or less passing back and forth by the passengers, preparing for the approaching landing, but yet we were able to continue our conversation. At Margaret’s request I told her more about Mona and Avis, and the principal incidents of what seemed to me a real experience, reserving the graver parts of the story for other occasions. Her sympathies went out particularly toward Mona, and suggested the question: “Did not the poor child recover her voice?” “I think she did soon after we left,” I replied. “I neglected to tell you that, the morning we started for our last aerial trip, Antonia told me she was teaching Mona the use of the vocal organs, and the results were already such that she believed she would in a short time be entirely successful.” “How fortunate for me,” said Margaret, laughing, “that you came away just then.” “Oh, Margaret,” I exclaimed as loud as I dared, “I thought I was happy last night, but what shall I call my condition now? Do you have that intensity of feeling for me which is nearly bursting my heart?” “Yes, my dear, I have had it for years. But my love is certainly increasing now, when I see yours flowering out so luxuriantly.” In such sweet converse the time passed rapidly. Steadily our noble vessel carried us every moment nearer home. And with the last words of Thorwald, “Go back to the earth,” still ringing in my ears, we steamed amid familiar scenes--the lights from Long Island, New Jersey, Staten Island, and soon Liberty’s torch, Governor’s Island, and the great city in front of us. This voyage was ended, but our life’s voyage seemed to be just beginning as I led Margaret forth with wonderful tenderness and whispered in her ear, passionately, the magic words, “I love you.” POSTSCRIPT. Every book should have a purpose. Notwithstanding the popular character of much that is contained in these pages, the purpose of this volume is a serious one. I acquired the belief in the habitability of other worlds when quite young, and it long ago grew into a settled conviction.