With a strength which could not be my own I rose and moved unquestioning toward the door. I passed out into the silent corridor, down the white steps to the door that led into the church. This place I had not visited since first I came, and now in the clear white light of night each jewelled throne and golden pillar shone like brilliant eyes all watching me. Silently down the nave I moved toward the doors, and through them, out onto the marble steps, away through the wooded grounds down to the avenue by which I came—along the dark, grand road, even unto the heavy portal which swung open silently and let me pass. Then came the wilderness with marsh lights shining in the distance, faint will-o’-the-wisps, which lead mortals to the awful bogs. On, on, along the one hard track I journeyed, and the ghost-winds whistled round me as I flew. The mighty forest flung its shadow o’er me as I sped into its gloomy shade. But one wide track led onward, and at the end there shone a light so clear and pure that its rays poured like softest sunbeams into the darkness round. END OF PART II PART III HEAVEN CHAPTER I Who ever yet rising with dawn felt not some disappointment when it died away and left nothing but Working Day, its one unceasing gift? For Dawn with all its freshness laughs and leaves us, caring not that it has come at the wrong side of day, knowing well that its twin-sister, Sunset, has beauties only for the weary-eyed and sad. We see the sun depart and turn aside and sigh, since with the sudden twilight the wraith of Silence rises and wraps us all in quietness and thought. But what would be our brightness and our joy if at the end of toiling day, jaded and world-worn, we went out to see the sun set, and behold! it rose. A little pure surprise—a little rubbing of the eyes—a little unexpected difference—some trivial exclamation—and our hands would stretch toward that sun—and night be day, and day but a passing, short-lived night henceforward. For this sun, rising above inanimate decrees, would bear us on with it and into it, leaving no scathing burns to mar the path it travelled, but only clear thrilling light. For with intensest gladness we should hail this coming change—and each strung nerve, beating like heart of love upon a heart as pure as ever dawn of heaven’s childhood gave it, would relax, and glow with the clearest pleasure that angels ever gave. The faded, failing, feeble feet, aching in every little joint and bone, would find the brightness only cooled and eased them, spurring them on, soft as those little baby feet that pressed the peeping buttercups on a flowery lawn, to a purer height where buttercups, if buttercups there were, would be sweeter and more golden. And the tired spirit drooping like a fading butterfly, crushed by some cruel, thoughtless hand, with wings all turning to