“No, not you, in any definite sense, but self, and yourself in that. But it does not matter whether you disagree, if you can really go onward with us, and believe with us, without believing you are immortal. For all that matters is how we live now. It is not necessary to know the future, unless you need it for the present. When I say ‘immortal’ I mean we are immortal, now, because the universe is here.” Ruth thought that life would be meaningless if we were not immortal; that all progress, all goodness would have no sense. She said: “One might live to do good, just to be kind to others, who were also mortal. But if that were the end, there would be no meaning in it.” Henry agreed with her, and most of the others expressed similar ideas. I said this did not prove we were immortal. But I, too, felt a limited life to be meaningless. Still, I wanted to know the truth. Alfred saw he could not consistently believe in race immortality, but he wanted to. Virginia said: “You know the sun will burn down some time. Every fire burns itself out. Then the world will get cold and dark. And then what becomes of the human race?” “But,” I said, “the energy that was the sun will be in the universe, and will light other suns.” “Energy never dies,” said Virginia. “If I put out my arm like this,” and she stretched forth her hand, “the energy that goes out from me never dies. It bounds and rebounds, and in some way goes on forever.” “As it has been forever until now,” I said. “No, I think it dies out,” said Alfred. “If you bounce a ball, it bounds and rebounds and then stops.” I explained to him how energy is not destroyed, but transmitted; how nothing is ever destroyed, but all things are changed. He believed the physical part changed and was not destroyed. Still, it was not life any more. He said: “It is not the same thing. I am myself now, but I am not the same person I was as a little child. I am all changed.” “Yes,” I answered him, “your body is different material, your brain and your thoughts are not the same, your shape is changed, but you are still self, and you were self then.” “But when I die, where will I be?” “I don’t know,” I said. “But I know that somehow you must be.” Virginia and Alfred—in fact, all the children—had a long discussion. Alfred said, in speaking of a horse which had been buried in the woods, and over which ferns had grown, “but the ferns were not the horse”—a sensible remark. He said: “When you move your hand, the energy that goes onward is not the hand. And so, when I die, the self that goes out of me may be a force, but it will go out of me, it will not be I.” “But you yourself,” I said, “are the life, the force, the self, which goes forth, which moves all things.”