We began by going to the house of a friend of mine and standing quietly in the room where he and his family were at supper. No one saw us but the cat, which began a loud purring and stretched itself with joy at our presence. Had I gone there alone, the cat might have been afraid of me; but who--even a cat--could fear the Beautiful Being? Suddenly one of the children--the youngest one--looked up from his supper of bread and milk, and said: “Father, why does milk taste good?” “I really do not know,” admitted the author of his being, “perhaps because the cow enjoyed giving it.” “That father might have been a poet,” the Beautiful Being said to me; but no one overheard the remark. One of the other children complained of feeling sleepy, and put his head down on the edge of the table. The mother started to arouse him, but the Beautiful Being fluttered a mystifying veil before her eyes, and she could not do it. “Let him sleep if he wants to,” she said. “I will put him to bed by and by.” I could see in the brain of the child that he was dreaming already, and I knew that the Beautiful Being was weaving a fairy-tale on the web of his mind. After only a moment he started up, wide awake. “I dreamed,” he said, “that----[the writer of these letters] was standing over there and smiling at me as he used to smile, and with him was an angel. I never saw an angel before.” “Come away,” whispered the Beautiful Being to me. “From dreaming children nothing can be hidden.” We then paid a visit to the future mother of my boy Lionel. Oh, mystery of maternity! The eyes of the Beautiful Being were like stars as we gazed upon this other flower-seed, whose genealogy goes even beyond the days of the cave-man--aye, back to the time of the fire-mist and the sons of the morning stars. “Come away!” said the Beautiful Being again. “To brides who dream of motherhood much also is revealed, and for this evening we remain unknown.” We passed along the margin of a river which divides a busy town. Suddenly from a house by the river-bank we heard the tinkle of a guitar and a woman’s sweet voice singing: “When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell, ... Then you’ll remember--you’ll remember me.” The Beautiful Being touched my hand and whispered: “The life that is so sweet to these mortals is a book of enchantment for me.” “Yet you have never tasted human life yourself?” “On the contrary, I taste it every day; but I only taste it--and pass on. Should I consume it, I might not be able to pass on.” “But do you never long so to consume it?” “Oh, but the thrill is in the taste! Digestion is a more or less tiresome process.” “I fear you are a divine wanton,” I said, affectionately. “Be careful,” answered the Beautiful Being. “He who fears anything will lose me in the fog of his own fears.” “You irresistible one!” I cried. “Who are you? _What_ are you?”