It concerns man's _actual possessions_, of which nothing in "the three worlds" can ever dispossess him. I know of nothing so beneficent, in any concept of God or Nature, Providence or Destiny, as this birthright and opportunity of man, to build character, and _be_ what he chooses to be. He who knows his power, realizes his opportunity and utilizes his resources, may build a Palace of the Soul, in which he may dwell, literally, in a "kingdom of heaven." And because God is the Architect, and Man the Contractor and Builder, working strictly to the "plans" and the designs, "that house shall stand." It is founded on the "Rock of Ages." Did anyone ever know or see a noble character that was not built by the Individual himself, by personal effort, by self-control, by self-denial, by justice and kindness to others; often in the face of Poverty; often in spite of wealth; often in the face of sickness, pain and deformity; perhaps deaf and dumb and blind; and yet, like Helen Keller, the soul triumphant and glorified? To-day, as I write, I went to the Crematory to see the dissolution of a poor, twisted, deformed, and tortured body of a woman past fifty, in which had dwelt a soul so serene, cheerful, and patient, that the beatitudes clustered around her, like doves in a garden of roses. It required no stretch of the imagination to determine what society she had entered. "Like seeks like," and each "goes to his own place." Her motive, the day-star of her life, was the Mother-Love for an only son. In spite of poverty and pain, she must reward him for love and loyalty, by being bright and cheerful and by belittling her own discomfort to save him sorrow. Her reward was the growth of the soul that has now risen to its great reward, and dearer and sweeter than all this to the Mother-heart, was to see and realize the growth, the tenderness, and the beautifying of the soul of the Son. Did it pay? I can almost hear her shouting for joy as she joins the anthem of the Invisible Choir of Helpers that welcome her just over the border. She prayed many times, even the last time I saw her, before the great change, "If it be possible, let this cup pass from me." I could only say, "Wait just a little longer," with the assurance that every shadow of darkness shall be transformed into dazzling light, and every drop of bitterness into the nectar of the Gods. She was almost deaf and blind, but you should have heard the sweetness in her voice and seen the radiance in her face. I did not know that the end was so near. To the son, the sweetest sound on earth was that mother's voice, but, though silent for a thousand years, he would not recall her to one moment of the old torture. His sorrow for _himself_ is swallowed up and glorified in his joy for her release. And what is all this but a lesson in practical psychology, the growth of the soul? Does it pay? Ask that Mother; ask that Son now. "How do you know?" How do you know anything, except as you see, or experience it?