ould imagine, hearing
him grumbling, that the world had been created and got ready against the
time when he should come to take his pleasure in it. He would push and
trample, heedless, reaching towards these many desires of his; and when,
grabbing, he misses, he curses Heaven for its injustice, and men and
women for getting in his path. He is not a nice man, in any way. I wish,
as I say, he would not come so often and sit in my clothes. He persists
that he is I, and that I am only a sentimental fool, spoiling his
chances. Sometimes, for a while, I get rid of him, but he always comes
back; and then he gets rid of me and I become him. It is very confusing.
Sometimes I wonder if I really am myself.

ON THE DISADVANTAGE OF NOT GETTING WHAT ONE WANTS

Long, long ago, when you and I, dear Reader, were young, when the
fairies dwelt in the hearts of the roses, when the moonbeams bent each
night beneath the weight of angels' feet, there lived a good, wise man.
Or rather, I should say, there had lived, for at the time of which I
speak the poor old gentleman lay dying. Waiting each moment the dread
summons, he fell a-musing on the life that stretched far back behind
him. How full it seemed to him at that moment of follies and mistakes,
bringing bitter tears not to himself alone but to others also. How much
brighter a road might it have been, had he been wiser, had he known!

"Ah, me!" said the good old gentleman, "if only I could live my life
again in the light of experience."

Now as he spoke these words he felt the drawing near to him of a
Presence, and thinking it was the One whom he expected, raising himself
a little from his bed, he feebly cried,

"I am ready."

But a hand forced him gently back, a voice saying, "Not yet; I bring
life, not death. Your wish shall be granted. You shall live your life
again, and the knowledge of the past shall be with you to guide you. See
you use it. I will come again."

Then a sleep fell upon the good man, and when he awoke, he was again a
little child, lying in his mother's arms; but, locked within his brain
was the knowledge of the life that he had lived already.

So once more he lived and loved and laboured. So a second time he lay an
old, worn man with life behind him. And the angel stood again beside his
bed; and the voice said,

"Well, are you content now?"

"I am well content," said the old gentleman. "Let Death come."

"And have you understood?" asked the angel.

"