“He shares one with some friends, for he is not married yet. Sometimes when people are dying on the earth he goes there and makes their death-bed. He makes them very gently, so that the spiritual pain is eased. But those hideous demons that gather round such scenes fasten themselves upon his arms and hands, and hinder him by bites and clinging hard, so that he oftentimes can scarcely do his work.” “But where is the guardian angel of the dying man?” “He has none,” she answered sadly. “He may have driven him off, or turned from him as they so often do. And those are the kind of cases Philemon goes to help, because he has studied them. It is no good trying to help them whilst they live, but our people are bound to keep the record of their works just as they do in hell, and it is from this record that he studies. Then when he has made the bed so miraculously that no slavish hand can touch it he waits alone, unguarded, for by this the demons have fled away in terror. At last the great enemy comes.” “Is that death?” “It is that great enemy who has led them all their lives by narrow zig-zag paths, placing bright bubbles and magic music in their path till the night falls.” “And what of Philemon, then?” “He still stands still, and when the other finds he has not gone he turns to look at him, and asks him why he stays. Then he shows him the sign by which he has a right to stay there to the end; and in the presence of the Angel of Death he draws up his prescription.” “But what is the use of a prescription for a man about to die?” “Well, it means he is not incurable. They carry the prescription out in hell and he is remedied.” “And is he the only such spirit you have in heaven?” “No. But the gift is rare, and only those who have the power can make or use the prescription. If you make the least mistake they won’t carry out your prescription, but tear it up and laugh at it and then there is no help for the dying.” “And does this gift of making prescriptions spring from making beds?” “Yes. To make the bed of a dead man is better than to make a golden coffin. It means that he will rise again.” For some time we strolled on quietly, till down the avenue we saw Moonbeam coming towards us. She was walking slowly and did not notice us in the distance. “Let us hide,” suggested Sunbeam. “No,” said I. “Remember my advancing years. Moreover, I am thinking if we do not make haste and deliver your message we shall be late back.” So we walked a little quicker till we came up to her. She was taller than Sunbeam, with a face whose greatest beauty was its sweetness. Yet with this there was mingled a sadness and seriousness I had never seen in Sunbeam, who was all lightness and love and tender feeling and little else, though that was heaven’s best.