t
sorrow for you?" I asked.

"Assuredly," was the reply. "Can you not see that so it must needs
be with beings freed by foresight from the disease of memory? All the
sorrow of parting, as of dying, comes with you from the backward vision
which precludes you from beholding your happiness till it is past.
Suppose your life destined to be blessed by a happy friendship. If you
could know it beforehand, it would be a joyous expectation, brightening
the intervening years and cheering you as you traversed desolate
periods. But no; not till you meet the one who is to be your friend do
you know of him. Nor do you guess even then what he is to be to you,
that you may embrace him at first sight. Your meeting is cold and
indifferent. It is long before the fire is fairly kindled between you,
and then it is already time for parting. Now, indeed, the fire burns
well, but henceforth it must consume your heart. Not till they are dead
or gone do you fully realize how dear your friends were and how sweet
was their companionship. But we--we see our friends afar off coming
to meet us, smiling already in our eyes, years before our ways meet.
We greet them at first meeting, not coldly, not uncertainly, but with
exultant kisses, in an ecstasy of joy. They enter at once into the full
possession of hearts long warmed and lighted for them. We meet with that
delirium of tenderness with which you part. And when to us at last the
time of parting comes, it only means that we are to contribute to each
other's happiness no longer. We are not doomed, like you, in parting, to
take away with us the delight we brought our friends, leaving the ache
of bereavement in its place, so that their last state is worse
than their first. Parting here is like meeting with you, calm and
unimpassioned. The joys of anticipation and possession are the only food
of love with us, and therefore Love always wears a smiling face. With
you he feeds on dead joys, past happiness, which are likewise the
sustenance of sorrow. No wonder love and sorrow are so much alike
on Earth. It is a common saying among us that, were it not for the
spectacle of the Earth, the rest of the worlds would be unable to
appreciate the goodness of God to them; and who can say that this is not
the reason the piteous sight is set before us?"

"You have told me marvelous things," I said, after I had reflected. "It
is, indeed, but reasonable that such a race as yours should look down
with wondering pity o