But one’s self becomes of less importance, which seems to be the point. It seems very strange to me sometimes, looking back to those desperate winter days, what a change has come over my thoughts of Roy. Not that he is any less--O, never any less to me. But it is almost as if she had raised him from the grave. Why seek ye the living among the dead? Her soft, compassionate eyes shine with the question every hour. And every hour he is helping me,--ah, Roy, we understand one another now. How he must love Aunt Winifred! How pleasant the days will be when we can talk her over, and thank her together! “To be happy because Roy is happy.” I remember how those first words of hers struck me. It does not seem to me impossible, now. * * * * * Aunt Winifred and I laugh at each other for talking so much about heaven. I see that the green book is filled with my questions and her answers. The fact is, not that we do not talk as much about mundane affairs as other people, but that this one thing interests us more. If, instead, it had been flounces, or babies, or German philosophy, the green book would have filled itself just as unconsciously with flounces, or babies, or German philosophy. This interest in heaven is of course no sign of especial piety in me, nor could people with young, warm, uncrushed hopes throbbing through their days be expected to feel the same. It is only the old principle of, where the treasure is--the heart. “How spiritual-minded Mary has grown!” Mrs. Bland observes, regarding me respectfully. I try in vain to laugh her out of the conviction. If Roy had not gone before, I should think no more, probably, about the coming life, than does the minister’s wife herself. But now--I cannot help it--that is the reality, this the dream; that the substance, this the shadow. The other day Aunt Winifred and I had a talk which has been of more value to me than all the rest. Faith was in bed; it was a cold, rainy evening; we were secure from callers; we lighted a few kindlers in the parlor grate; she rolled up the easy-chair, and I took my cricket at her feet. “Paul at the feet of Gamaliel! This is what I call comfort. Now, Auntie, let us go to heaven awhile.” “Very well. What do you want there now?” I paused a moment, sobered by a thought that has been growing steadily upon me of late. “Something more, Aunt Winifred. All these other things are beautiful and dear; but I believe I want--God. “You have not said much about Him. The Bible says a great deal about Him. You have given me the filling-up of heaven in all its pleasant promise, but--I don’t know--there seems to be an outline wanting.” She drew my hand up into hers, smiling. “I have not done my painting by artistic methods, I know; but it was not exactly accidental. “Tell me, honestly,--is God more to you or less, a more distinct Being or a more vague one, than He was six months ago? Is He, or is He not, dearer to you now than then?”