But the road was so black that you did not see the colour of the stream, and you thought it black too; and it softened the leaves and the black dust, and your feet slipped in it, and the pain was coming back to your heart as it had come at the fountain long since, only worse if anything, and perhaps different. Then the road grew much worse, for this unseen fluid was covering it. Suddenly a light shone overhead, the first along the whole dark path, and soon it died away. But to Deborah standing there uncertainly came a figure, a gliding spirit wearing a curious robe. At times it shone white as silver, and again black as dusky night. “How familiar is this figure,” thought Deborah. “In some ways it is like the prayer. I ought to know it, and yet I don’t.” But being extremely weary, for the road made you so, she had scarcely the strength to think at all. This forest makes every mortal weary that passes through it. Oh! very, very weary. It teaches you so much too; more than the most brilliant ball-room or entertainment or anything that the gay world can give. It is a magical forest, you know. When the dust falls from the flowers Silence says, “Were not those pretty little baubles? Anywhere but in the Dark Path they would have won a first-class prize for brilliancy and colour.” And then Silence laughs as the dust flickers down. “The world would build a hot-house for one of these posies, and pay a thousand guineas down if it were fashion. Ah! but you are in the Dark Path and must travel on. We stand no whims, we who govern here. Though your feet ache and your ankles are weary you must still go on or the black leaves will stifle you. Do you hear the gurgle of the Stream? It’s Pain, you know. Silence and Pain. Twin sisters. Gurgle, gurgle. Your father has trod it all before. How his feet ached too! Poor father!” Oh! this stream is a very teaching stream. It makes men feel to the very marrow of the bone. It stings to the core so that brilliant lights flash from your aching, feverish eyes, and the world laughs and says, “Ah! that was very good.” Not knowing what a sepulchre it laughs at. Now let us go back to the Spirit, standing there in the forest. It isn’t an angel, and not even a Spirit of Paradise, not in the accepted sense; but it is so familiar to Deborah that she rubs her eyes and looks again, and can make nothing of it. “It’s Dante out of one of the pictures,” says she; but even that did not solve the riddle, not at all. “It is that being who guided him.” But no.