To recover the memories of my past incarnations; To lay the necessary foundations for a great earth life when I should go back next time. That sounds simple, does it not? Already I have done much besides; but if I had not borne these points in mind I might have accomplished little. The only really sad thing about death is that the average man learns so little from it. Only my realisation of the fact that the chain of earth lives is relatively endless could keep me from regret that most persons make so little progress in each life. But I comfort myself with the assurance that there is no hurry; that the pearls in the chain of existence, though small, are all in their inevitable places, and that the chain is a circle, the symbol of eternity. And it seems to me, with my still finite view, that most men on this side waste their lives even as they do on your side. That shows how far I am yet from the ideal knowledge. Viewed from the stars, whence I hope some day to view them, all these flat stretches in the landscape of life may be softened by distance, and the whole picture may take on a perspective of beauty which I had not dreamed of while I myself was but a speck upon the canvas. LETTER XXXIV THE PASSING OF LIONEL I HAVE lost my boy Lionel. He has gone--I started to say the way of all flesh; but I must revise the figure and say the way of all spirits, sooner or later, and that way is back to the earth. One day not long ago I found him absorbed in thought in our favourite resting-place, the little hut beside a stream at the foot of a wooded hill, which I told you about in one of my former letters. I waited for a time until the boy opened his eyes and looked at me. “Father,” he said, “my favourite teacher is going to be married to-morrow.” “How do you know?” I asked. “Why, I have been listening!” he answered. “Every little while I go back and pay her a visit, though she does not know I am there. I have been aware that there was something in the wind.” “Why?” “Because she has been so shining; there is a light around her which was not there before.” “What caused the light, Lionel?” “Well, I suppose she is what they call _in love_.” “You are a phenomenally wise child,” I said. He looked at me with his large, honest eyes. “I am not really a child at all,” he answered. “I am as old as the hills, as you, or as anybody. Have you not told me that we are all immortal, without end or beginning?” “Yes, but go on, tell me about your teacher.” “She is in love with the big brother of one of my playfellows. I used to know him when I was a little boy. He let me use his magnet, and taught me kite-flying, and showed me how machinery went. He is an engineer.” “Oh!” I said. “In this case, of course, you are glad that your favourite teacher is going to marry him.” Lionel’s eyes were larger than ever as he said: