“That’s just it. You are going away, and you are never coming back.” “That is true, my son. _I_ am never coming back—but you will eventually come to me. Why mourn? To mourn is selfish.” “It’s no good,” said Alan. “I suppose I am of coarser clay. I can’t believe that I could ever ‘pass yonder’ through the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. I come from another world. Suppose I die—oh you don’t know death as I do—but suppose it comes to Keemar through me, and afterwards through my children.” “Have no fear,” said the Rorka, “that day will never come.” And so the last few days had passed, and Alan saw him enveloped in the incense, and vanish from sight. Alan marvelled at his wife’s fortitude. He had felt the knife of death on Terra; this glorious parting was so different. He longed to believe that he, too, one day, would vanish thus, material and earthy though he was. And so Alan the Rorka, and Chlorie his wife were crowned, and occupied joint thrones in the land of Keemar. Their joy in their unity, in the completeness of their life, was a constant wonder to them. They renewed their joys in their children—their life was almost perfect. Sir John was growing feeble. Part of the time he spent with Mavis and Desmond, and part with Alan. But wherever he went, Masters and Zyllia always accompanied him. Mavis’ three children and Alan’s two, grew up like brothers and sisters; indeed, their parents were all like one big family. Alan had not long been on the throne of Keemar, when an urgent message was brought him, that Waz-Mula, humbly begged an audience. “Who is he?” asked Alan. “He is holder of the key to the Hall of Sorrows,” answered Y-Kjesta, “and sails the air bird, that plys to and fro from Fyjipo.” “I remember him well. Bring him in.” “O noble Rorka, I beg a favour of you,” said Mula. “What is it that troubles you?” “You remember Arrack the Miserable?” “Well?”