One calm, beautiful night, while she was sleeping soundly, Ruth dreamed her soul was transported to another world. She dreamed this beautiful world was Mars. It was a world of love and romance instead of war. The dream seemed real as life. At first she was surprised to find herself carried as if by magic so quickly and safely through space to this lovely new world,—it seemed like a lover’s paradise. This strange new world was the world of the soul. Ruth wondered how she came there. As she looked around she saw a tall, dark, handsome young stranger, who spoke, smiled, and bowed to poor little surprised Ruth. He was very courteous and gently told her that once, he was an ancient Indian prince. He said an old Indian living near her grandfather’s home would tell her the same truth, and this would prove that all he said was true, and no dream at all. “Remember, Ruth, many dreams are true and real—soul facts. A wicked Black King drove us away from India many years ago and captured my son with his lovely bride, and took all our wealth except a few jewels. Mara was then my princess yet did not belong to me, and is now happy with her twin soul. They are now wealthy and live in Neptune. We made a mistake then, as many do now in marrying the person not intended for us. In India we taught the immortality of the soul. This wicked and powerful King Pootana did not believe in the Communion of Saints or would not permit it to be taught, if he could help it. We taught one God, one love, one wife; he had many wives in those days. He killed good priests. His soul now suffers in Purgatory, and will for some time. My tribe and myself were drowned in a terrible storm on the river Escawtawpa.” “O! Prince Cresto, an old negro we call Aunt Mary told grandma this same story. She said it was all true, but we all laughed at her. Is it a real fact?” “Yes, child. I can remember the storm, and the rain pouring down on us, how terrible it seems now. The old raft sank slowly down, down, to our death. On that very spot where our ship sank these magical reeds grew. In love and immortal sympathy and pity they sway, they sing their sad doleful hymns. These musical sounds are the sobs and groans of a great tribe mourning for their Prince and loved ones.” “I have often dreamed of you, Prince Cresto, and now I see you face to face. Are you truly alive?” “Yes, I am a real live man; asking you if you would like to visit some of the scenes and wonderful sights in Mars, would you, Ruth?” “I would love to!” Cresto (they have no titles in Mars) sent a mental wireless message, and soon a boy came with a lovely little airship called “The Golden Butterfly.”