“It sounds more plausible than it is, I think,” said I, with frank discourtesy. “The acts of one day may influence those of the next--or interminably.” “That’s your lookout; but they needn’t necessarily. With each new birth comes a new capacity for looking at things in their right proportions.” “How far do you push your theory?” “As far as you like. I’d have, all the world over, a daily revival of systems.” “Government--law?” “Certainly. Of everything.” “Then justice, injustice, vindictiveness, must all revive, too.” “No. They’re recalled; they don’t revive.” “But must a criminal, for instance, be allowed to escape because they have failed to catch him the day he did the deed?” “That’s exactly it. It makes no difference. He couldn’t atone here for an act committed by him during another existence. But that particular minute goes pretty red into its pigeon-hole, you may be sure.” “Oh, it’s wild nonsense,” I laughed. “You can’t possibly be consistent.” “Can’t I? Look here, you are my friend yesterday, and to-day, and always, I hope. I judge you daily on your merits, yet, for all I know, you may have committed murder in one of your past existences?” The blood went back upon my heart. Then a great longing awoke in me to tell all to this self-reliant soul and gain comfort of my sorrow. But where was the good in the broad face of his theory? “Well,” I said, with a sigh, “I’ve done things at least I bitterly repent of.” “That’s the conventional way of looking at it. Repentance in this won’t avail a former existence. Past days of mine have had their troubles, no doubt, but this day I have before me unclouded and to do what I like with.” “Well, what shall we do with it?” said I. “I hand it over to you to make it a happiness for me. I dare say we shall find plenty of sorrows between sunrise and evening to give it a melancholy charm.” “Rubbish!” cried my friend. “Cant, cant, cant, ever to suppose that sorrow is necessary to happiness! We mortals, I tell you, have an infinite capacity for delight; given health, spiritual and bodily, we could dance in the sunbeams for eternity and never reach a surfeit of pleasure.” “Duke,” said I--“may I call you Duke?” “Of course.” “It puzzles me where you got--I don’t mean offense--only I can’t help wondering----” “How I came to have original thoughts and a grammatical manner of speech? Look here----” he held up his stained fingers--“aren’t these the hands of a man of letters?” “And a man of action,” I said, with a laugh. “But----” “It’s no use, Renny. I can’t look further back than this morning.” “You can recall, you know. You don’t deny each existence that capacity?” “Perhaps I could; but to what advantage? To shovel up a whole graveyard of sleeping remembrances to find the seed of one dead nettle that thrusts its head through? No, thank you. Besides, if it comes to that, I might put the same question to you.”