“You do not mean that I have gone to the bad place?” “No, you have not gone to the darkest place,” I said, “and you will find your way to heaven by and by.” “But why was I drowned? Why did the ship go down? It was such a beautiful ship, and we were so happy playing about the decks!” “You were drowned because Germany is at war with England.” “But why should they drown me?” “In an attempt to prove that England does not hold the seas.” “But what has that to do with me?” “Nothing, my child. It has nothing to do with you. You are only a helpless victim.” “But _who_ drowned us?” “The commander of a submarine.” “Is he a very bad man?” “I cannot imagine a good man doing it.” “And why can’t I find my mother? Was she drowned, too?” “I don’t know yet.” “Then you don’t know everything?” “No, I don’t know everything.” “Are you an angel?” “No, I am not an angel.” “What are you, then?” “A man.” “And were you drowned, also?” “No, I came to the other world more than three years ago.” The child began to cry. Did you suppose that children never cried after death? Dead children often cry. Would you not cry at the thought of being drowned, if you woke and could not find your mother? I too could have cried with the child, for I have had children of my own, and one of them died young. “Have I been very bad without knowing it, that I should be drowned like this?” asked the little girl. “No, I do not think that you have been very bad.” As we passed across the rough waters we saw the corpse of a woman floating face upwards in the pale light. The child could see it dimly, though not so well as I. Have you ever seen a living child weeping over the soulless corpse of its mother? If that seemed sad to you, would it not seem sadder to see the living _soul_ of a child weeping over the corpse of a mother whose soul was absent? To me it was the most pitiful of all sad sights. “Come away, little one,” I said, “your mother is not here.” A little farther on we saw the body of a child also floating face upwards in the pale light. I knew whose body it was, and so did the child. “Why, it isn’t pretty any more!” she said. “Come away, little one,” I repeated, “come and look for the mother.” But she seemed held fast near the floating thing in the water. No, it was not pretty; but the soul beside me was very beautiful for all its sadness. “What will become of _it_?” she asked, awestruck. “I do not know.” “Do you think they will bury it somewhere?” “If they find it they will bury it.” “Could you not tell them where it is?” “If we wait to look for them, we may not find the mother.” We met many women passing to and fro over the water, mothers looking for their children, wives seeking their husbands, some seeking their own lost forms, others merely passing to and fro in bewilderment and grief. “It is very sad to die,” said the child. “It is not always sad to die,” I answered. “It is sometimes beautiful to die.” “Where is the man who drowned us?”