“There is no time in the world, Paul,” she said, huskily, “in which one so keenly feels and appreciates the kindness of friends as a time like this. I can see that you are sorry for me, and I want you to know how grateful I am, but I simply can't express it. My very heart and soul seem to have died within me.” “You mustn't try,” he answered. “You must simply realize that all things are right. Even _this_ great sorrow, sad as it appears, is for the best, if only you could see it in the right light.” “I remember you said so the other day. And, Paul, I did try hard. A beautiful faith in personal immortality, like yours, really does keep away the horror of death, and I tried, with all my mind and body, to grasp it. I prayed and prayed for your faith, and it seemed to me, at certain moments, that I came so close to it that I could almost sense it as a wonderful reality. It would flash before me like a beautiful dream, and then vanish, leaving nothing but that awful scene in its place. For half an hour yesterday I was almost happy. It seemed to me that Jennie was really not dead. I fancied she was there with me, telling me--not in words, but in some subtle way--not to grieve, that she was in a new life full of joy and freedom.” “That is the thought you ought to endeavor to hold,” Paul fervently declared, “because it is simple truth. In fact, you deny the ultimate aim of life in looking at it in any other way.” “You will say it was a small thing, perhaps,” Ethel went on, “which threw me back into despair. It was this: Shortly after our talk at the spring, I picked up a newspaper, and the first thing I saw was a long article concerning a statement made by Edison, to the effect that the result of all his careful and lifelong investigations was the conclusion that the immortality of the soul was an utter impossibility. Paul, I dropped from hope to despair in an instant. I tried to think you might be right and he wrong, but I failed. I asked myself this question: If God is good enough to grant us another and a better life, why will He allow one of the greatest men of our age to deny it, and let me--_me_, suffering and praying for light as I am--come across his denial in grim, black letters on white paper?” “That raises a little scientific point.” Paul looked at her wistful face and half smiled. “You allowed yourself to be influenced, almost self-hypnotized, by one single mental picture.” “How so?” Ethel inquired.