“I heard your call,” I replied, “and heaven is not so wide that I could not come. Now we must go, and I will take you to the most beautiful place you ever saw in dreams. You must not remain to witness the proceedings further.” He smiled at my words: “Why, you talk as if there was something terrible about death. It has been the most pleasant passage in my life. I have suffered a great deal in its approach, but when it came it brought only joy. When I saw you, I was so pleased, my clay-lips uttered my thoughts, the last words they ever gave. Now it is done, I must stay till it is over. I want to see how the relatives and friends act, and hear what they say. You know it will be strange to hear one’s own funeral sermon.” As he would not go, I remained with him, and entering again into the earth-sphere, suffered from the contact. My husband was greatly interested in the ceremonies, and when they were over, he said: “I am glad the old aching body has at last gone to its final rest. The children were grieved, and ought to know how they misunderstand. Perhaps I can tell them some time. Hearts do not break with grief, else mine would have broken. Come, now, my new-found wife, I will go where you wish.” I need not repeat the story of the journey or describe the meeting with our Claribel. Her father was of so happy a disposition, that he at once assimilated his surroundings, and became one with his companions. “I have worked and struggled along,” he said, “having little time to think, and I am as ignorant as a savage. I desire at once to commence gaining knowledge. How am I to proceed?” We all laughed at his eagerness, and one said: “There is time enough; you must first rest and recover strength.” “Rest! I was never stronger, and I am anxious for exertion. I feel mentally starved and crave thought food.” “You will find no difficult task. To desire is to have, and you will soon become in sympathy with the thought-atmosphere of our home.” Then one of our number, who was a poet, superior to us all, said he had had a singular and painful experience, and we demanded to hear it. THE POET’S STORY.--I had been enthroned, and as I came up the pathway leading to this eminence, I met a boisterous throng of people. Strange faces they had, and yet they were familiar. I looked closely, and imagine my surprise when I found they belonged to me. They were the thoughts I had expressed in my earth-life. Some were dark, repulsive and inexpressibly ugly, while others were exquisitely beautiful. What a horde they were, and though some were pleasing, the greater proportion caused my cheeks to blush with shame. “Father! father!” they called, rushing toward me. “Away!” I cried. “I know you not!” “Then we will follow you. We belong to you, and wherever you go we will go. We will not desert you.”