, and loves die: from where springs that whisper to the
tiny soul of man, "You shall not die." Ah, is there no truth of which
this dream is shadow?

He fell into perfect silence. And, at last, as he walked there with his
bent head, his soul passed down the steps of contemplation into that
vast land where there is always peace; that land where the soul, gazing
long, loses all consciousness of its little self, and almost feels its
hand on the old mystery of Universal unity that surrounds it.

"No death, no death," he muttered; "there is that which never
dies--which abides. It is but the individual that perishes, the whole
remains. It is the organism that vanishes, the atoms are there. It is
but the man that dies, the Universal Whole of which he is part reworks
him into its inmost self. Ah, what matter that man's day be short!--that
the sunrise sees him, and the sunset sees his grave; that of which he
is but the breath has breathed him forth and drawn him back again. That
abides--we abide."

For the little soul that cries aloud for continued personal existence
for itself and its beloved, there is no help. For the soul which knows
itself no more as a unit, but as a part of the Universal Unity of which
the Beloved also is a part; which feels within itself the throb of the
Universal Life; for that soul there is no death.

"Let us die, beloved, you and I, that we may pass on forever through the
Universal Life! In that deep world of contemplation all fierce desires
die out, and peace comes down." He, Waldo, as he walked there, saw no
more the world that was about him; cried out no more for the thing that
he had lost. His soul rested. Was it only John, think you, who saw the
heavens open? The dreamers see it every day.

Long years before the father had walked in the little cabin, and
seen choirs of angels, and a prince like unto men, but clothed in
immortality.

The son's knowledge was not as the father's, therefore the dream was
new-tinted, but the sweetness was all there, the infinite peace that men
find not in the little cankered kingdom of the tangible. The bars of
the real are set close about us; we cannot open our wings but they are
struck against them, and drop bleeding. But, when we glide between the
bars into the great unknown beyond, we may sail forever in the glorious
blue, seeing nothing but our own shadows.

So age succeeds age, and dream succeeds dream, and of the joy of the
dreamer no man knoweth but he wh