ught the mischief, but the remedy did
not lie with him.

His own lips quivered above her bowed head; he bit them desperately.

After a little she commanded herself sufficiently to speak through her
tears. "Bertie, you once said--that there was no goodness without Love.
Then why--why is Love--wrong?"

"Love is not wrong, _cherie_." Instant and reassuring came his answer.
"Let us be true to Love, and we are true to God. For Love is God, and in
every heart He is to be found; sometimes in much, sometimes in very, very
little, but He is always there."

"I don't understand," said Chris. "If that were so--why mustn't we love
each other? Why is it wrong?"

"It is not wrong." Again with absolute assurance Bertrand spoke. "So long
as it is pure, it is also holy. There is no sin in Love. We shall love
each other always, dear, always. With me it will be more--and ever more.
Though I shall not be with you, though I shall not see your face or touch
your hand, you will know that I am loving you still. It will be as an
Altar Flame that burns for ever. But I will be faithful. My love shall
never hurt you again. That is where I sinned. I was selfish enough to
show you the earthly part of my love--the part that dies, just as our
bodies die, setting our spirits free. For see, _cherie_, it is not the
material part that endures. All things material must pass, but the
spiritual lives on for ever. That is why Love is immortal. That is why
Love can never die."

She listened to him in silence, scarcely comprehending at the moment
words that later were to become the only light to guide her stumbling
feet.

"Would you say that you love the dead no more because you see them not?"
he questioned gently. "The sight--the touch--what is it? Only the earthly
medium of Love; Love Itself is a higher thing, capable of the last
sacrifice, greater than evil, stronger than death. Oh, believe me,
Christine, Death is a very small thing compared with Love. If our love
were of the spirit only, Death would be less than nothing; for it is only
the body that can ever die."

"But why can't we be happy before we die?" whispered Chris. "Other people
are."

He shook his head. "I doubt it, _cherie_. With death in the world there
can be no perfection. All passes--all passes--except only the Love that
is our Life."

He paused a moment, seeming to hesitate upon the verge of telling her
something more; but in that instant she raised her head and he refrained.