“You have seen and heard,” said Barbara. “It was my sin which has brought this misery on our son, who, had I lived on, might have been saved. Now through me he is lost, who step by step of his own will must travel downwards to the last depth, and thence, perhaps, never be raised again. This is the thing that I have done, yes, I whom blind judges in the world held to be good.” “I have seen and heard,” he answered, “and joy has departed from me. Yet what wrong have you worked, who did not know?” “Come, my father,” called Barbara to that spirit who in the flesh had been named Septimus Walrond, “come, you who are holy, and pray that light may be given to us.” So he came and prayed and from the Heavens above fell a vision in answer to his prayer. The vision was that of the fate of the soul of the son of Anthony and Barbara through a thousand, thousand ages that were to come, and it was a dreadful fate. “Pray again, my father,” said Barbara, “and ask if it may be changed.” So the spirit of Septimus Walrond prayed, and the spirits of his daughters and of the daughter of Anthony and Barbara prayed with him. Together they kneeled and prayed to the Glory that shone above. There came another vision, that of a little child leading a man by the hand, and the child was Barbara and the man was he who had been her son. By a long and difficult path—upwards, ever upwards—she led him, and the end of that path was not seen. Then these spirits prayed that the meaning of this vision might be made more clear. But to that prayer there came no answer. Barbara went apart into a wilderness where thorns grew and there endured the agony of temptation. On the one hand lay the pure life of joy which, like the difficult path that had been shown to her, led upwards, ever upwards to yet greater joy, shared with those she loved. On the other hand lay the seething hell of Earth, to be once more endured through many mortal years and—a soul to save alive. None might counsel her, none might direct her. She must choose and choose alone. Not in fear of punishment, for this was not possible to her. Not in hope of glory, for that she must inherit, but only for the hope’s sake that she might—save a soul alive. Out of her deep heart’s infinite love and charity thus she chose in atonement of her mortal sin. And as she chose the great arc of Heaven above her, that had been grey and silent, burst to splendour and to song. So Barbara for a while bade farewell to those who loved her, bade farewell to Anthony her heart’s heart. Once more, alone, utterly alone, she laid her on the couch in the great chamber with the translucent dome and thence her spirit was whirled back through nothingness to the hell of Earth, there to be born again in the child of the evil woman, that it might save a soul alive. Thus did the sweet and holy Barbara—Barbara who came back—in atonement of her sin. For her reward, as she fights on in hope, she has memory and such visions as are written here.