and the entrance lay open.

A person stood there whose face was bright and grave, and whose robe
was like the flower of the lily, not a woven fabric, but a living
texture.

"Come in," he said to the company of travellers; "you are at your
journey's end, and your mansions are ready for you."

John Weightman hesitated, for he was troubled by a doubt. Suppose that
he was not really, like his companions, at his journey's end, but only
transported for a little while out of the regular course of his life
into this mysterious experience? Suppose that, after all, he had not
really passed through the door of death, like these others, but was
walking in a vision, a living man among the blessed dead. Would it be
right for him to go with them into the heavenly city? Would it not be
a deception, a desecration, a deep and unforgivable offence? The
strange, confusing question had no reason in it, as he very well knew;
for if he was dreaming, then it was all a dream; but if his companions
were real, then he also was with them in reality, and if they had died
then he must have died too. Yet he could not rid his mind of the sense
that there was a difference between them and him, and it made him
afraid to go on. But, as he paused and turned, the Keeper of the Gate
looked straight and deep into his eyes, and beckoned to him. Then he
knew that it was not only right but necessary that he should enter.

They passed from street to street among fair and spacious dwellings,
set in amaranthine gardens, and adorned with an infinitely varied
beauty of divine simplicity. The mansions differed in size, in shape,
in charm: each one seemed to have its own personal look of loveliness;
yet all were alike in fitness to their place, in harmony with one
another, in the addition which each made to the singular and tranquil
splendour of the city.

As the little company came, one by one, to the mansions which were
prepared for them, and their Guide beckoned to the happy inhabitant to
enter in and take possession, there was a soft murmur of joy, half
wonder and half recognition; as if the new and immortal dwelling were
crowned with the beauty of surprise, lovelier and nobler than all the
dreams of it; and yet also as if it were touched with the beauty of
the familiar, the remembered, the long-loved. One after another the
travellers were led to their own mansions, and went in gladly; and
from within, through the open doorways, came sweet voices of welcome,