These were the thoughts at the root of my sadness, when I was startled out of them by my companion’s voice. She had waited in reverential silence as long as I lived my filial past over again; but, when I returned to my starting-point, and began spending fruitless regrets and pangs over that which neither demanded nor warranted them, her thoughts broke out into loud protest. She could no longer endure such futilities, such waste of tissue, and she met my wailing reflections one by one. Amiralno was glad to leave his chrysalis stage of existence; the energy that was in him would find a freer scope, a nobler sphere, as soon as it had shed its earthly trammels. His counsel and guidance would not be lost to progress; all that he was and had would still be part of what he would become; not one thought or faculty would be left behind; and all would then be spent not on the progress of a little island of a small terrestrial archipelago or its race, but on that of the universe, if not of the cosmos. All of him that could still appeal to our lower senses would remain with us, and would immortalise his memory, as far as immortality would go upon this ephemeral orb. As for his sympathy and love, they were doubtless still with us, or at least with what in us was best and nearest the cosmic. The only thing to regret was that we could not personally feel his presence in the universe. But even this was not for idle regrets. It was mere palsy, if it did not stir us to still further mastery of our conditions. Were we not in the way to feel and know the escaped spirits of our dead? Had we not developed senses in us that were receivers of impulses from the infinite around us, impulses that had been dormant through the uncounted past? Had we not instruments that told us of energies and beings unfelt even by our new-developed senses? And were we to grope in our prison-house, and wail over what we had lost and could not longer see? Were we to sit in the darkness, and weep and wait, hoping for the light? Such feeble conclusions from the past, such futile regrets over the dead, Limanoran progress could not endure. There were new masteries for every generation. Before many years could pass they would get into touch with the spirits and energies that had fled; it might be by means of new instruments; it might be by new senses; nothing but our own dulness broke the connection between our energies and theirs; what we had still to win was consciousness, if not mastery, of that finer type of matter which they now used as medium for their energy. It was only the lifting of another of the myriad veils that hung before our senses dulling their perceptions. This was no more than what they had done a thousand times already. A death was a stimulus to joy and new effort. It taught us the limits of our knowledge and our power; and limits known were limits soon to be overpassed.