“Oh, there are a lot of such things that people expect and don’t get. For instance, there’s a Brooklyn preacher by the name of Talmage, who is laying up a considerable disappointment for himself. He says, every now and then in his sermons, that the first thing he does when he gets to heaven, will be to fling his arms around Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and kiss them and weep on them. There’s millions of people down there on earth that are promising themselves the same thing. As many as sixty thousand people arrive here every single day, that want to run straight to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and hug them and weep on them. Now mind you, sixty thousand a day is a pretty heavy contract for those old people. If they were a mind to allow it, they wouldn’t ever have anything to do, year in and year out, but stand up and be hugged and wept on thirty-two hours in the twenty-four. They would be tired out and as wet as muskrats all the time. What would heaven be, to _them_? It would be a mighty good place to get out of—you know that, yourself. Those are kind and gentle old Jews, but they ain’t any fonder of kissing the emotional highlights of Brooklyn than you be. You mark my words, Mr. T.’s endearments are going to be declined, with thanks. There are limits to the privileges of the elect, even in heaven. Why, if Adam was to show himself to every new comer that wants to call and gaze at him and strike him for his autograph, he would never have time to do anything else but just that. Talmage has said he is going to give Adam some of his attentions, as well as A., I. and J. But he will have to change his mind about that.” “Do you think Talmage will really come here?” “Why, certainly, he will; but don’t you be alarmed; he will run with his own kind, and there’s plenty of them. That is the main charm of heaven—there’s all kinds here—which wouldn’t be the case if you let the preachers tell it. Anybody can find the sort he prefers, here, and he just lets the others alone, and they let him alone. When the Deity builds a heaven, it is built right, and on a liberal plan.” Sandy sent home for his things, and I sent for mine, and about nine in the evening we begun to dress. Sandy says,— “This is going to be a grand time for you, Stormy. Like as not some of the patriarchs will turn out.” “No, but will they?” “Like as not. Of course they are pretty exclusive. They hardly ever show themselves to the common public. I believe they never turn out except for an eleventh-hour convert. They wouldn’t do it then, only earthly tradition makes a grand show pretty necessary on that kind of an occasion.” “Do they an turn out, Sandy?”