Thursday, January 20, 2011

Within Heaven's Gates By Rebecca Springer

R E B E C C A 
R U T E R 
S P R I N G E R 
Also published as: 
Into the Light 
My Dream of Heaven
Within the Gates 
Within Heaven's Gates 
 Within the Walls 


The pages of this little volume contain no fancy sketch, 
written to while away an idle hour; but are the true, though 
greatly condensed, record of an experience during days 
when life hung in the balance between Time and Eternity, 
with the scales dipping decidedly toward the Eternity side. 
I am painfully aware of the fact that I can never paint for 
others the scenes as they appeared to me during those 
wonderful days. If I can only dimly show the close linking 
of the two lives—the mortal with the divine—as they then 
appeared to me, I may be able to partly tear the veil from 
the death we so dread, and show it to be only an open door 
into a new and beautiful phase of the life we now live. 
If any of the scenes depicted should seem irreverent in 
view of our religious training here, I can only say, "I give it 
as it came to me." In those strange, happy hours the close 
blending of the two lives, so wrapped about with the 
Father's watchful care and tender love; the reunion of 
friends, with the dear earth-ties unchanged; the satisfied 
desires, the glad surprises and the divine joys, all 
intensified and illumined by the reverence and love and 
adoration that all hearts gave to the blessed Trinity, 
appeared to me the most perfect revelation of that "blessed 
life" of which here we so fondly dream. With the hope that 
it may comfort and uplift some who read, even as it then 

appeared to me, I may be able to partly tear the veil from 
the death we so dread, and show it to be only an open door 
into a new and beautiful phase of the life we now live. 
If any of the scenes depicted should seem irreverent in 
view of our religious training here, I can only say, "I give it 
as it came to me." In those strange, happy hours the close 
blending of the two lives, so wrapped about with the 
Father's watchful care and tender love; the reunion of 
friends, with the dear earth-ties unchanged; the satisfied 
desires, the glad surprises and the divine joys, all 
intensified and illumined by the reverence and love and 
adoration that all hearts gave to the blessed Trinity, 
appeared to me the most perfect revelation of that "blessed 
life" of which here we so fondly dream. With the hope that 
it may comfort and uplift some who read, even as it then 
did, and as its memory ever will do, for me, I submit this 
imperfect sketch of a most perfect vision. 
R. R. S.

"Shall we stop at that poor line, the grave, which all our 
Christianity is always trying to wipe out and make nothing 
of, and which we always insist on widening into a great 
gulf? Shall we not stretch our thought beyond, and feel the 
life-blood of this holy church, this living body of Christ, 
pulsing out into the saints who are living there, and coming 
back throbbing with tidings of their glorious and 
sympathetic life?" 
—Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks, D. D.

When the holy angels meet us, 
As we go to join their hand, 
Shall we know the friends that greet us, 
In the glorious spirit-land? 
Shall we see the same eyes shining 
On us, as in days of yore? 
Shall we feel their dear arms twining 
Fondly 'round us as before? 
Shall we know each other there? 
—[Rev. R. Lowry. 

I WAS many hundred miles away from home and friends, 
and had been very ill for many weeks. I was entirely among 
strangers, and my only attendant, though of a kindly 
disposition, knew nothing whatever of the duties of the sick 
room; hence I had none of the many delicate attentions that 
keep up an invalid's failing strength. I had taken no 
nourishment of any kind for nearly three weeks, scarcely 
even water, and was greatly reduced in both flesh and 
strength, and consciousness seemed at times to wholly 
desert me. I had an unutterable longing for the presence of 
my dear distant ones; for the gentle touch of beloved hands, 
and whispered words of love and courage; but they never 
came they could not. Responsible duties, that I felt must not 
be neglected, kept these dear ones much of the time in 
distant scenes, and I would not recall them. 
I lay in a large, comfortable room, on the second floor 
of a house in Kentville. The bed stood in a recess at one 
end of the apartment, and from this recess a large stained- 
glass window opened upon a veranda fronting on the street. 
During much of my illness I lay with my face to this 
window, and my back to the room; and I remember 
thinking how easy it would be to pass through the window 
to the veranda, if one so desired. When the longing for the 
loved distant faces and voices became more than I could 
bear, I prayed that the dear Christ would help me to realize 
his blessed presence; and that since the beloved ones of 
earth could not minister to me, I might feel the influence of 
the other dear ones who are "all ministering spirits." 
Especially did I ask to be sustained should I indeed be 
called to pass through the dark waters alone. It was no idle 
prayer, and the response came swiftly, speedily. All 
anxieties and cares slipped away from me, as a worn-out 
garment, and peace, Christ's peace, enfolded me. I was 
willing to wait God's time for the coming of those so dear 
to me, and said to myself, more than once, "If not here, it 
will be there; there is no fear of disappointment there." In 
those wonderful days of agonized suffering, and great 
peace, I felt that I had truly found, as never before, the 
refuge of "the Everlasting Arms." They lifted me; they 
upbore me; they enfolded me; and I rested in them, as a 
tired child upon its mother's bosom. One morning, dark and 
cold and stormy, after a day and night of intense suffering, 
I seemed to be standing on the floor by the bed, in front of 
the stained-glass window.
Some one was standing by me, and, when I looked up, I 
saw it was my husband's favorite brother, who "crossed the 
flood" many years ago. 
"My dear brother Frank!" I cried out joyously, "how 
good of you to come!" 
"It was a great joy to me that I could do so, little Sister," 
he said gently. "Shall we go now?" and he drew me toward 
the window. 
I turned my head and looked back into the room that 
somehow I felt I was about to leave forever. It was in its 
usual good order: a cheery, pretty room. The attendant sat 
by the stove at the farther end, comfortably reading a 
newspaper; and on the bed, turned toward the window, lay 
a white, still form, with the shadow of a smile on the poor, 
worn face. My brother drew me gently, and I yielded, 
passing with him through the window, out on the veranda, 
and from thence, in some unaccountable way, down to the 
street. There I paused and said earnestly: 
"I cannot leave Will and our dear boy." 
"They are not here, dear, but hundreds of miles away," 
he answered. 
"Yes, I know, but they will be here. Oh, Frank! they will 
need me—let me stay!" I pleaded. 
"Would it not be better if I brought you back a little 
later—after they come?" he said, with a kind smile. 
"Would you surely do so?" I asked. 
"Most certainly, if you desire it. You are worn out with
the long suffering, and a little rest will give you new 
I felt that he was right, said so in a few words, and we 
started slowly up the street. He had drawn my hand within 
his arm, and endeavored to interest me, as we walked. But 
my heart clung to the dear ones whom I felt I was not to see 
again on earth, and several times I stopped and looked 
wistfully back the way we had come. He was very patient 
and gentle with me, waiting always till I was ready to 
proceed again; but at last my hesitation became so great 
that he said pleasantly: 
"You are so weak I think I had better carry you;" and 
without waiting for a reply, he stooped and lifted me in his 
arms, as though I had been a little child; and, like a child, I 
yielded, resting my head upon his shoulder, and laying my 
arm about his neck. I felt so safe, so content, to be thus in 
his care. It seemed so sweet, after the long, lonely struggle, 
to have some one assume the responsibility of caring thus 
tenderly for me. 
He walked on with firm, swift steps, and I think I must 
have slept; for the next I knew, I was sitting in a sheltered 
nook, made by flowering shrubs, upon the softest and most 
beautiful turf of grass, thickly studded with fragrant 
flowers, many of them the flowers I had known and loved 
on earth. I remember noticing heliotrope, violets, lilies of 
the valley, and mignonette, with many others of like nature 
wholly unfamiliar to me. But even in that first moment I 
how perfect in its way was every plant and flower. For 
instance, the heliotrope, which with us often runs into long, 
ragged sprays, there grew upon short, smooth stems, and 
each leaf was perfect and smooth and glossy, instead of 
being rough and coarse-looking; and the flowers peeped up 
from the deep grass, so like velvet, with sweet, happy faces, 
as though inviting the admiration one could not withhold. 
And what a scene was that on which I looked as I rested 
upon this soft, fragrant cushion, secluded and yet not hidden! 
Away, away—far beyond the limit of my vision, I well 
knew—stretched this wonderful sward of perfect grass and 
flowers; and out of it grew equally wonderful trees, whose 
drooping branches were laden with exquisite blossoms and 
fruits of many kinds. I found myself thinking of St. John's 
vision in the Isle of Patmos, and "the tree of life" that grew in 
the midst of the garden, bearing "twelve manner of fruits, and 
whose leaves were for the healing of the nations." Beneath the 
trees, in many happy groups, Were little children, laughing 
and playing, running hither and thither in their joy, and 
catching in their tiny hands the bright-winged birds that flitted 
in and out among them, as though sharing in their sports, as 
they doubtless were. All through the grounds, older people 
were walking, sometimes in groups, sometimes by twos, 
sometimes alone, but all with an air of peacefulness and 
happiness that made itself felt by even me, a stranger. All 
were in spotless white, though many wore about them or 
carried in their bands clusters of
beautiful flowers. As I looked upon their happy faces and 
their spotless robes, again I thought, "These are they who 
have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood 
of the Lamb." 
Look where I would, I saw, half hidden by the trees, 
elegant and beautiful houses of strangely attractive 
architecture, that I felt must be the homes of the happy 
inhabitants of this enchanted place. I caught glimpses of 
sparkling fountains in many directions, and close to my 
retreat flowed a river, with placid breast and water clear as 
crystal. The walks that ran in many directions through the 
grounds appeared to me to be, and I afterward found were, 
of pearl, spotless and pure, bordered on either side by 
narrow streams of pellucid water, running over stones of 
gold. The one thought that fastened itself upon me as I 
looked, breathless and speechless, upon this scene, was 
"Purity, purity!" No shadow of dust; no taint of decay on 
fruit or flower; everything perfect, everything pure. The 
grass and flowers looked as though fresh-washed by 
summer showers, and not a single blade was any color but 
the brightest green. The air was soft and balmy, though 
invigorating; and instead of sunlight there was a golden and 
rosy glory everywhere; something like the afterglow of a 
Southern sunset in midsummer. 
As I drew in my breath with a short, quick gasp of delight, I 
heard my brother, who was standing beside me, say softly, 
"Well?" and, looking up, I discovered that he was watching me 
with keen enjoyment. I had, in my great surprise
and delight, wholly forgotten his presence. Recalled to 
myself by his question, I faltered: 
"Oh, Frank, that I—" when such an overpowering sense 
of God's goodness and my own unworthiness swept over 
me that I dropped my face into my hands, and burst into 
uncontrollable and very human weeping. 
"'Ah!" said my brother, in a tone of self-reproach, "I am 
inconsiderate." And lifting me gently to my feet, he said, 
"Come, I want to show you the river." 
When we reached the brink of the river, but a few steps 
distant, I found that the lovely sward ran even to the water's 
edge, and in some places I saw the flowers blooming 
placidly down in the depths, among the many-colored 
pebbles with which the entire bed of the river was lined. 
"I want you to see these beautiful stones," said my 
brother, stepping into the water and urging me to do the 
I drew back timidly, saying, "I fear it is cold." 
"Not in the least," he said, with a reassuring smile. 
"Just as I am?" I said, glancing down at my lovely robe, 
which, to my great joy, I found was Similar to those of the 
dwellers in that happy place. 
"Just as you are," with another reassuring smile. 
Thus encouraged, I, too, stepped into the "gently flowing 
river," and to my great surprise found the water, in both 
temperature and density, almost identical with the air.
Deeper and deeper grew the stream as we passed on, until I 
felt the soft, sweet ripples playing about my throat. As I 
stopped, my brother said, "A little farther still." 
It will go over my head," I expostulated. Well, and what 
then?" I cannot breathe under the water—I will suffocate." 
An amused twinkle came into his eyes, though he said 
soberly enough, "We do not do those things here." 
I realized the absurdity of my position, and with a happy 
laugh said, "All right; come on," and plunged headlong into 
the bright water, which soon bubbled and rippled several 
feet above my head. To my surprise and delight, I found I 
could not only breathe, but laugh and talk, see and hear, as 
naturally under the water as above it. I sat down in the 
midst of the many-colored pebbles, and filled my hands 
with them, as a child would have done. My brother lay 
down upon them, as he would have done on the green 
sward, and laughed and talked joyously with me. 
"Do this," he said, rubbing his hands over his face, and 
running his fingers through his dark hair. 
I did as he told me, and the sensation was delightful. I 
threw back my loose sleeves and rubbed my arms, then my 
throat, and again thrust my fingers through my long, loose, 
hair, thinking at the time what a tangle it would be in when 
I left the water. Then the thought came, as we at last arose 
to return, "What are we to do for towels?" for the 
earth-thoughts still clung to me; and I wondered, too, if the

lovely robe was not entirely;polled. But behold. as we 
neared the shore and my head once more emerged from the 
water, the moment the air struck my face and hair I realized 
that I would need no towel or brush. My flesh, my hair, and 
even my beautiful garments, were soft and dry as before the 
water touched them. The material out of which my robe 
was fashioned was unlike anything that I had ever seen. It 
was soft and light and shone with a faint luster, reminding 
me more of silk crepe than anything I Could recall, only 
infinitely more beautiful. It fell about me in soft, graceful 
folds, which the water seemed to have rendered even more 
lustrous than before. 
"What marvelous water! What wonderful air!" I said to 
my brother, as we again stepped upon the flowery sward 
Are all the rivers here like this one?" 
"Not just the same, but similar," he replied. 
We walked on a few steps, and then I turned and looked 
back at the shining river flowing on tranquilly. "Frank, 
what has that water done for me?" I said. "I feel as though I 
could fly." 
He looked at me with earnest, tender eyes, as, he 
answered gently, "It has washed away the last of the 
earth-life, and fitted you for the new life upon which you 
have entered." 
"It is divine!" I whispered. 
"Yes, it is divine," he said.
City of Peace! in thy palaces fair 
Loved faces and forms we can see; 
And sweet voices float to us thro' the calm air 
That whisper, "We're watching for thee!" 
WE walked on for some distance in silence, my heart 
wrestling with the thoughts of the new, Strange life, my 
eyes drinking in fresh beauty at every step. The houses, as 
we approached and passed them, seemed wondrously 
beautiful to me. They were built of the finest marbles, 
encircled by broad verandas, the roofs or domes supported 
by massive or delicate pillars or columns; and winding 
steps led down to the pearl and golden walks. The style of 
the architecture was unlike anything I had ever seen, and 
the flowers and vines that grew luxuriantly everywhere 
surpassed in beauty even those of my brightest dreams. 
Happy faces looked out from these columned walls, and 
happy voices rang upon the clear air, from many a celestial 
"Frank, where are we going?" at length I asked. 
"Home, little sister," he answered tenderly. 
"Home? Have we a home, my brother? Is it anything like 
these?" I asked, with a wild desire in my heart to cry out for joy. 
"Come and see," was his only answer, as he turned into a 
side path leading toward an exquisitely beautiful house 
whose columns of very light gray marble shone through the 
green of the overhanging trees with most inviting beauty. 
Before I could join him, I heard a well-remembered voice 
saying close beside me: 
"I just had to be the first to bid you welcome!" and 
looking around, I saw the dearly-beloved face of my 
old-time friend, Mrs. Wickham. 
"Oh! Oh!" I cried, as we met in a warm embrace. 
"You will forgive me, Col. Sprague," she said a moment 
later, giving her hand cordially to my brother. "It seems 
unpardonable to intercept you thus, in almost the first hour, 
but I heard that she was coming, and I could not wait. But 
now that I have looked upon her face, and heard her dear 
voice, I will be patient till I can have her for a long, long 
"You must come in and see her now," said my brother 
"Do, do come!" I urged. 
"No, dear friends, not now. You know, dear little 
Blossom," (the old pet name for me years ago) "we have all 
eternity before us! But you will bring her to me soon, Col. 
Sprague?" she said. 
"Just as soon as I may, dear madam," he replied, with an 
expressive look into her eyes. 
Yes, I understand," she said softly, with a sympathetic 
glance at me. Then with a warm hand-clasp, and the parting 
injunction, "Come very soon," she passed swiftly out of my 
"Blessed woman!" I said, "what a joy to meet her again!" 
"Her home is not far away; you can often see her. She is 
indeed a lovely woman. Now, come, little sister, I long to 
give you welcome to our home," saying which, he took my 
hand and led me up the low steps on to the broad veranda, 
with its beautiful inlaid floor of rare and costly marbles, 
and its massive columns of gray, between which, vines 
covered with rich, glossy leaves of green were intermingled 
with flowers of exquisite color and delicate perfume 
hanging in heavy festoons. We paused a moment here, that 
I might see the charming view presented on every side. 
"It is heavenly!" I said. 
"It is heavenly," he answered. "It could not be 
I smiled my acknowledgment of this truth—my heart 
was too full for words. 
"The entire house, both below and above, is surrounded 
by these broad verandas. But come within." 
He led me through a doorway, between the marble 
columns, into a large reception hall, whose inlaid floor, 
mullioned window, and broad, low stairway at the far end, 
at once held my fancy. Before.. I could speak, my brother 
turned to me, and, taking both my hands, said: 
"Welcome, a thousand welcomes, dearest sister, to your 
heavenly home!"
"Is this beautiful place indeed to be my home?" I asked. 
as well as my emotion would allow. 
"Yes, dear," he replied. "I built it for you and my brother, 
and I assure you it has been a labor of love." 
"It is your home, and I am to stay with you?" I said, a 
little confused. 
"No, it is your home, and I am to stay with you till my 
brother comes." 
"Always, dear brother, always!" I cried, clinging to his arm. 
He smiled and said, "We will enjoy the present; we never 
will be far apart again. But come, I am eager to show you 
Turning to the left, he led me, still through the beautiful 
marble columns that everywhere seemed substituted for 
doorways, into a large, oblong room, upon whose threshold 
I stopped in wondering delight. The entire walls and floor 
of the room were still of that exquisite light gray marble, 
polished to the greatest luster; but over walls and floors 
were strewn exquisite, long-stemmed roses, of every 
variety and color, from the deepest crimson to the most 
delicate shades of pink and yellow. 
"Come inside," said my brother. 
"I do not wish to crush those perfect flowers," I 
"Well, then, suppose we gather some of them." 
I stooped to take one from the floor close to my feet, when
lo! I found it was imbedded in the marble. I tried another 
with the same astonishing result, then turning to my 
brother, I said: 
"What does it mean? You surely do not tell me that none 
of these are natural flowers?" 
He nodded his head with a pleased smile, then said: 
"This room has a history. Come in and sit with me here 
upon this window-seat, where you can see the whole room, 
and let me tell you about it." I did as he desired, and he 
continued: "One day as I was busily working upon the 
house, a company of young people, boys and girls, came to 
the door, and asked if they might enter. I gladly gave 
assent, and then one of them said: 
"'Is this house really for Mr. and Mrs. Sprague?' 
"'It is,' I answered. 
"'We used to know and love them. They are our friends, 
and the friends of our parents, and we want to know if we 
may not do something to help you make it beautiful?' 
"'Indeed you may,' I said, touched by the request. 'What 
can you do?' 
"We were here at the time, and looking about, one of 
them asked, 'May we beautify this room?' 
"'Undoubtedly,' I said, wondering what they would try to 
"At once the girls, all of whom had immense bunches of 
roses in their hands, began to throw the flowers broadcast 
over the floor and against the walls. Wherever they struck
the walls, they, to even my surprise, remained, as though in 
some way permanently attached. When the roses had all 
been scattered, the room looked just as it does now, only 
the flowers were really fresh-gathered roses. Then the boys 
each produced a small case of delicate tools, and in a 

moment all, boys and girls, were down upon the marble 
floor and busy at work. How they did it I do not know—it 
is one of the celestial arts, taught to those of highly artistic 
tastes—but they embedded each living flower just where 
and as it had fallen, in the marble, and preserved it as you 
see before you. They came several times before the work 
was completed, for the flowers do not wither here, nor fade, 
but were always fresh and perfect. And such a merry, 
happy company of young people, I never saw before. They 
laughed and chatted and sang, as they worked; and I could 
not help wishing more than once that the friends whom 
they had left mourning for them might look in upon this 
happy group, and see how little cause they had for sorrow. 
At last when all was complete, they called me to see their 
work, and I was not chary of my praises either for the 
beauty of the work or for their skill in performing it. Then, 
saying they would be sure to return when either of you 
came, they went away together, to do something of the kind 
elsewhere, I doubt not." 
Happy tears had been dropping upon my hands, clasped 
idly in my lap, during much of this narrative, and now I 


asked half-brokenly, for I was greatly touched:

"Who were these lovely people, Frank? Do you know 
"Of course, I know them now; but they were all strangers 
to me till they came here that first morning, except Lulu 
"Who are they?" 
"There were three Marys—Mary Green, Mary Bates, 
Mary Chalmers; Lulu Sprague and Mae Camden. These 
were the girls, each lovely and beautiful. The boys, all 
manly, fine fellows, were Carroll Ashland, Stanley and 
David Chalmers." 
"Precious children!" I said. "How little I thought my love 
for them, in the olden days, would ever bring to me this 
added happiness here! How little we know of the links 
binding the two worlds!" 
"Ah, yes I" said my brother, "that is just it. How little we 
know! If only we could realize while we are yet mortals, 
that day by day we are building for eternity, how different 
our lives in many ways would be! Every gentle word, every 
generous thought, every unselfish deed, will become a 
pillar of eternal beauty in the life to come. We cannot be 
selfish and unloving in one life, and generous and loving in 
the next; the two lives are too closely blended—one but a 
continuation of the other. But come now to the library." 
Rising, we crossed the room that henceforward was to 
hold for me such tender associations, and entered the 
It was a glorious apartment—the walls lined from ceiling 
to floor with rare and costly books. A large, stained-glass 
window opened upon the front veranda, and two large bow- 
windows, not far apart, were in the back of the room. A 
semicircular row of shelves, supported by very delicate 
pillars of gray marble, about six feet high, extended some 
fifteen feet into the spacious main room and cut it into two 
sections lengthwise, each with one of the bowed windows 
in the back, leaving still a large space beyond the dividing 
line, where the two sections united again into one. The 
concave side of the semicircle of shelves was toward the 
entrance of the room; and close to it, not far removed from 
the bowed window, stood a beautiful writing-desk, with 
everything ready for use; and upon it was a chaste golden 
bowl, filled with scarlet carnations, of whose spicy odor I 
had been dimly conscious for some time. 
"My brother's desk," said Frank. 
"And his favorite flowers," I added. 
"Yes, that follows. Here we never forget the tastes and 
preferences of those we love." 
It is not to be supposed that these details were at once 
noticed by me, but they unfolded to me gradually as we 
lingered, talking together. My first sensation upon entering 
the room was genuine surprise at the sight of the books, and 
my first words were: 
"Why, have we books in heaven?" 
"Why not?" asked my brother. "What strange ideas
we mortals have of the pleasures and duties of this blessed 
life! We seem to think that death of the body means an 
entire change to the soul. But that is not the case, by any 
means. We bring to this life the same tastes, the same 
desires, the same knowledge, we had before death. If these 
were not sufficiently pure and good to form a part of this 
life, then we ourselves may not enter. What would be the 
use of our ofttimes long lives, given to the pursuit of certain 
worthy and legitimate knowledge, if at death it all counts as 
nothing, and we begin this life on a wholly different line of 
thought and study? No, no; would that all could understand, 
as I said before, that we are building for eternity during our 
earthly life! The purer the thoughts, the nobler the 
ambitions, the loftier the aspirations, the higher the rank we 
take among the hosts of heaven; the more earnestly we 
follow the studies and duties in our life of probation, the 
better fitted we shall be to carry them forward, on and on to 
completion and perfection here." 
"But the books—who writes them? Are any of them 
books we knew and loved below?" 
"Undoubtedly, many of them; all, indeed, that in any way 
helped to elevate the human mind or immortal soul. Then, 
many of the rarest minds in the earth-life, upon entering on 
this higher life, gain such elevated and extended views of 
the subjects that have been with them lifelong studies, that, 
pursuing them with zest, they write out for the benefit of 
those less gifted, the higher, stronger views they
have themselves acquired, thus remaining leaders and 
teachers in this rarer life, as they were while yet in the 
world. Is it to be expected that the great soul who has so 
recently joined our ranks, whose 'Changed Life' and 'Pax 
Vobiscum' uplifted so many lives while on earth, should 
lay his pen aside when his clear brain and great heart have 
read the mystery of the higher knowledge? Not so. When 
he has conned his lessons well, he will write them out for 
the benefit of others, less gifted, who must follow. Leaders 
there must always be, in this divine life, as in the former 
life—leaders and teachers in many varied lines of thought. 
But all this knowledge will come to you simply and 
naturally as you grow into the new life."
When I shall meet with those that I have loved, Clasp in my 
arms the dear ones long removed, And find how faithful Thou 
to me hast proved, I shall be satisfied. 
—Horatius Bonar. 
AFTER a short rest in this lovely room among the books, 
my brother took me through all the remaining rooms of the 
house,each perfect and beautiful in its way, and each 
distinctly and imperishably photographed upon my 
memory. Of only one other will I speak at this time. As he 
drew aside the gauzy gray draperies, lined with the most 
delicate shade of amber, which hung before the columned 
doorway of a lovely room on the second floor of the house, 
he said: 
"Your own special place for rest and study." 
The entire second story of the house, indoors, instead of 
being finished in gray marble, as was the first floor, was 
finished with inlaid woods of fine, satiny texture and rare 
polish; and the room we now entered was exquisite both in 
design and finish. It was oblong in shape, with a large bowed 
window at one end, similar to those in the library, a portion of 
which was directly beneath this room. Within this window, on 
one side, stood a writing desk of solid ivory, with silver 
appointments; and opposite was a case of well-filled 
bookshelves of the same material. Among the books 
I found afterward many of my favorite authors. Rich rugs, 
silver-gray in color, lay scattered over the floor, and all the 
hangings in the room were of the same delicate hue and 
texture as those at the entrance. The framework of the 
furniture was of ivory; the upholstering of chairs and 
ottomans of silver-gray cloth, with the finish of finest satin; 
and the pillows and covering of the dainty couch were of 
the same. A large bowl of wrought silver stood upon the 
table near the front window, filled with pink and yellow 
roses, whose fragrance filled the air; and several rarely 
graceful vases also were filled with roses. The entire 
apartment was beautiful beyond description; but I had seen 
it many times before I was fully able to comprehend its 
perfect completeness. Only one picture hung upon the 
walls, and that was a life-size portrait of the Christ, just 
opposite the couch. It was not an artist's conception of the 
human Christ, bowed under the weight of the sins of the 
world, nor yet the thorn-crowned head of the crucified 
Savior of mankind; but the likeness of the living Master, of 
Christ the victorious, of Christ the crowned. The wonderful 
eyes looked directly and tenderly into your own, and the 
lips seemed to pronounce the benediction of peace. The 
ineffable beauty of the divine face seemed to illumine the 
room with a holy light, and I fell upon my knees and 
pressed my lips to the sandaled feet so truthfully portrayed 
upon the canvas, while my heart cried, "Master, beloved 
Master and Savior!" It was long before I could fix my 
attention on anything else;
my whole being was full of adoration and thanksgiving for 
the great love that had guided me into this haven of rest, 
this wonderful home of peace and joy. 
After some time spent in this delightful place, we passed 
through the open window on to the marble terrace. A 
stairway of artistically finished marble wound gracefully 
down from this terrace to the lawn beneath the trees, no 
pathway of any kind approaching at its foot—only the 
flowery turf. The fruit-laden branches of the trees hung 
within easy reach from the terrace, and I noticed as I stood 
there that morning seven varieties. One kind resembled our 
fine Bartlett pear, only much larger, and infinitely more 
delicious to the taste, as I soon found. Another variety was 
in clusters, the fruit also pear-shaped, but smaller than the 
former, and of a consistency and flavor similar to the finest 
frozen cream. A third, something like a banana in shape, 
they called bread-fruit; it was not unlike our dainty finger- 
rolls to the taste. It seemed to me at the time, and really 
proved to be so, that in variety and excellence, food for the 
most elegant repast was here provided without labor or 
care. My brother gathered some of the different varieties 
and bade me try them. I did so with much relish and 
refreshment. Once the rich juice from the pearl-like fruit 
(whose distinctive name I have forgotten, if indeed I ever 
knew it,) ran out profusely over my hands and the front of 
my dress "Oh!" I cried, "I have ruined my dress, I fear!"
My brother laughed genially, as he said, "Show me the 
To my amazement not a spot could I find. 
"Look at your hands," he said. 
I found them clean and fresh, as though just from the 
"What does it mean? My hands were covered with the 
thick juice of the fruit." 
"Simply," he answered, "that no impurity can remain for 

an instant in this air. Nothing decays, nothing tarnishes, or 
in any way disfigures or mars the universal purity or beauty 
of the place. As fast as the fruit ripens and falls, all that is 
not immediately gathered at once evaporates, not even the 
seed remaining." 
I had noticed that no fruit lay beneath the trees—this, 
then, was the reason for it. 
"'And there shall in no wise enter into it anything that 
defileth,'" I quoted thoughtfully. 
"Yes, even so," he answered; "even so." 
We descended the steps and again entered the "flower 
room." As I stood once more admiring the inlaid roses, my 
brother asked: 
"Whom, of all the friends you have in heaven, do you 
most wish to see?" 
"My father and mother," I answered quickly. 
He smiled so significantly that I hastily turned, and there, 


advancing up the long room to meet me, I saw my dear

father and mother, and with them my youngest sister. With 
a cry of joy, I flew into my father's outstretched arms, and 
heard, with a thrill of joy, his dear, familiar "My precious 
little daughter!" 
"At last! at last!" I cried, clinging to him. "At last I have 
you again!" 
"At last!" he echoed, with a deep-drawn breath of joy. 
Then he resigned me to my dear mother, and we were soon 
clasped in each other's embrace. 
"My precious mother!" "My dear, dear child!" we cried 
simultaneously; and my sister enfolding us both in her 
arms,—exclaimed with a happy laugh, "I can not wait! I 
will not be left outside!" and disengaging one arm, I threw 
it about her into the happy circle of our united love. 
Oh, what an hour was that! I did not dream that even 
heaven could hold such joy. After a time my brother, who 
had shared our joy, said: 
"Now, I can safely leave you for a few hours to this 
blessed reunion, for I have other work before me." 
"Yes," said my father, "you must go. We will with joy 
take charge of our dear child." 
"Then for a brief while good-by," said my brother kindly. 
"Do not forget that rest, especially to. one but recently 
entered upon the new life, is not only one of the pleasures, 
but one of the duties of heaven." 
"Yes, we will see that she does not forget that," said my 
father, with a kindly smile and glance.
Joys that are gone, will you ever return 
To gladden our hearts as of yore? 
Will we find you awaiting us, some happy morn, 
When we drift to Eternity's shore? 
Will dear eyes meet our own, as in days that are past? 
Will we thrill at the touch of a hand? 
Joys that are gone, will we find you at last 
On the shores of that wonderful land? 
SOON after my brother's departure my mother said, 
grasping my hand: 
"Come, I am eager to have you in our own home;" and 
we all passed out of the rear entrance, walked a few 
hundred yards across the soft turf, and entered a lovely 
home, somewhat similar to our own, yet still unlike it in 
many details. It also was built of marble, but darker than 
that of my brother's home. Every room spoke of modest 
refinement and cultivated taste, and the home air about it 
was at once delightfully perceptible. My father's study was 
on the second floor, and the first thing I noticed on entering 
was the luxuriant branches and flowers of an old-fashioned 
hundred-leafed rose tree, that covered the window by his 
"Ah!" I cried, "I can almost imagine myself in your old 
study at home, when I look at that window." 
"Is it not a reminder?" he said, laughing happily. "I 


almost think sometimes it is the same dear old bush, 
transplanted here." 
"And it is still your favorite flower?" I queried. 
He nodded his head, and said, smiling: 
"I see you remember still the childhood days." And he 
patted my cheek as I gathered a rose and fastened it upon 
his breast. 
"It seems to me this ought to be your home, dear; it is 
our father's home," said my sister wistfully. 
"Nay," my father quickly interposed. "Col. Sprague is 
her legitimate guardian and instructor. It is a wise and 
admirable arrangement. He is in every way the most 
suitable instructor she could possibly have. Our Father 
never errs." 
"Is not my brother's a lovely character?" I asked. 
Lovely indeed; and he stands very near to the Master. 
Few have a clearer knowledge of the Divine Will, hence 
few are better fitted for instructors. But I, too, have duties 
that call me for a time away. How blessed to know there 
can never again be long separations! You will have two 
homes. now, dear child—your own and ours." 
"Yes, yes!" I said. "I shall be here, I suspect, almost as 
much as there." 
At this moment a swift messenger approached my father 
and spoke a few low words. 
"Yes, I shall go at once," he replied, and, waving his 
hand in adieu, departed with the angelic guide.
"Where do my father's duties mostly lie?" I asked my 
"He is called usually to those who enter life with little 
preparation—that which on earth we call death-bed 
repentance. You know what wonderful success he always 
had in winning souls to Christ; and these poor spirits need 
to be taught from the very beginning. They enter the 
spirit-life in its lowest phase, and it is your father's pleasant 
duty to lead them upward step by step. He is devoted to his 
work and greatly beloved by those he thus helps. He often 
allows me to accompany him and labor with him, and that 
is such a pleasure to me! And do you know"—with an 
indescribable look of happiness—" I forget nothing now!" 
It had been her great burden, for some years before her 
death, that memory failed her sadly, and I could understand 
and sympathize with her present delight. 
"Dear heart!" I cried, folding my arms tenderly about her, 
"then it is like the early years of your married life again?" 
"Precisely," she answered joyously. 
A little later my sister drew me tenderly aside and 
whispered, "Tell me of my boy, of my precious son. I often 
see him; but we are not permitted to know as much always 
of the earthly life as we once believed we should. The 
Father's tender wisdom metes out to us the knowledge he 
sees is best, and we are content to wait his time for more. 
All you can tell would not be denied me. Is he surely, 
surely coming to
me sometime? Shall I hold him again in my arms, my 
darling boy?" 
"I am sure—yes, I am sure you will. Your memory is 
very precious to him." 
Then I told her all I could recall of the son with whom 
she had parted while he was but a child—now grown to 
man's estate, honored and loved, with home and wife and 
son to comfort and bless him. 
"Then I can wait," she said, "if he is sure to come to me 
at last, when his earthly work is done, bringing his wife and 
son. How I shall love them, too!" 
At this moment I felt myself encircled by tender arms, 
and a hand was gently laid on my eyes. 
"Who is it?" some one whispered softly. 
"Oh, I know the voice, the touch!—dearest, dearest 
Nell!" I cried, and, turning quickly, threw my arms about 
the neck of my only brother. 
He gathered me a moment warmly to his heart, then in 
his old-time playful way lifted me quite off my feet in his 
strong arms, saying: 
She has not grown an inch; and is not, I believe, a day 
older than when we last parted! Is she, Joe?" turning to our 
"It does not seem so," said my sister, "but I thought she 
would never come." 
"Trust her for that!" he said. "But come, now; they have 
had you long enough for the first visit; the rest of us
want You for awhile. Come with us, Jodie. Mother, I may 
have them both for a little time, may I not? or will you 
come, too?" turning to our mother with a caressing touch. 
"I cannot go, dear boy; I must be here when your father 
returns. Take your sisters; it is a blessed sight to see you all 
again together." 
"Come then," he said; and, each taking one of my hands, 
we went out together. 
"Halt!" he suddenly called, in his old-time military 
fashion, after a short walk, and we stopped abruptly in front 
of a dainty house built of the finest polished woods. It was 
beautiful both in architecture and finish. 
"How lovely!" I cried; and with a bow of charming 
humility he said: 
"The home of your humble servant. Enter." 
I paused a moment on the wide veranda to examine a 
vine, wreathed about the graceful columns of 
highly-polished wood, and my brother laughingly said to 
my sister: 
"She is the same old Sis! We will not get much good out 
of her until she has learned the name of every flower, vine 
and plant in heaven." 
"Yes, you will," I said, shaking my head at his happy 
face, "but I mean to utilize you whenever I can; I have so 
much to learn." 
"So you shall, dear," he answered gently. "But come in." 
Stepping inside a lovely vestibule, Gut of which opened,
from every side, spacious rooms, he called softly "Alma!" 
At once from one of these, a fair woman approached us. 
"My dear child!" I said, "it does not seem possible! You 
were but a child when I last saw you." 
"She is still her father's girl," said my brother, with a fond 
look. "She and Carrie, whom you never saw, make a 
blessed home for me. Where is your sister, daughter?" 
"She is at the great music-hall. She has a very rich voice 
that she is cultivating," Alma said, turning to me. "We were 
going to find our aunt when she returned," she added. 
"True, true," said my brother; "but come." 
Then they showed me the lovely home, perfect and 
charming in every detail. When we came out upon a side 
veranda, I saw we were so near an adjoining house that we 
could easily step from one veranda to the other. 
"There!" said my brother, lightly lifting me over the 
intervening space. "There is some one here you will wish to 
see." Before I could question him, he led me through the 
columned doorway, saying, "People in heaven are never 
'not at home' to their friends." 
The house we entered was almost identical in construction 
and finish with that of my brother Nell, and, as we entered, 
three persons came eagerly forward to greet me. 
"Dear Aunt Gray!" I cried. "My dear Mary—my dear 
Martin! What a joy to meet you again!" 
And here," said my aunt reverently. Yes, here," I 
answered in like tone.
It was my father's sister, always a favorite aunt, with her 
son and his wife. How we did talk and cling to one another, 
and ask and answer questions! 
"Pallas is also here, and Will, but they have gone with 
Carrie to the music hall," said Martin. 
"Martin, can you sing here?" I asked. He always was 
trying to sing on earth, but could not master a tune. 
"A little," he answered, with his old genial laugh and 
shrug; "we can do almost anything here that we really try to 
"You should hear him now, cousin, when he tries to 
sing," said his wife, with a little touch of pride in her voice. 
"You would not know it was Martin. But is it not nice to 
have Dr. Nell so near us? We are almost one household, 
you see. All felt that we must be together." 
"It is indeed," I answered, "although you no longer need 
him in his professional capacity." 
"No, thanks to the Father; but we need him quite as much 
in many other ways." 
"I rather think I am the one to be grateful," said my 
brother. "But, sister, I promised Frank that you should go to 
your own room awhile; he thought it wise that you should 
be alone for a time. Shall we go now?" 
"I am ready," I answered, "though these delightful 
reunions leave no desire for rest." 
"How blessed," said my aunt, "that there is no limit here to 
our mutual enjoyment! We have nothing to dread, nothing
to fear. We know at parting that we shall meet again. We 
shall often see each other, my child." 
Then my brother went with me to my own home, and, 
with a loving embrace, left me at the door of my room. 
Once within, I lay down upon my couch to think over the 
events of this wonderful day; but, looking upward at the 
divine face above me, I forgot all else, and, Christ's peace 
enfolding me like a mantle, I became "as one whom his 
mother comforteth." While I lay in this blissful rest, my 
brother Frank returned, and, without rousing me, bore me 
in his strong arms again to earth. I did not know, when he 
left us in our home, upon what mission he was going, 
though my father knew it was to return to my dear husband 
and accompany him upon his sad journey to his dead wife; 
to comfort and sustain and strengthen him in those first 
lonely hours of sorrow. They deemed it best, for wise 
reasons, that I should wait awhile before returning, and 
taste the blessedness of the new life, thus gaining strength 
for the trial before me.
Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for 
them who shall be heirs of salvation?—Heb. 1: 14. 
How oft do they their silver bowers leave, 
To come to succor us that succor want! 
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave 
The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant, 
Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant! 
They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward, 
And their bright squadrons round about us plant, 
And all for love, and nothing for reward; 
O why should heavenly God to men have such regard! 
—[Edmund Spenser. 
WHEN I aroused from my steep it was in the gray light of 
earth's morning, and I was standing on the doorstep of the 
house in Kentville that my brother and I had left together, 
some thirty-six hours before, reckoned by earth-time. I 
shuddered a little with a strange chill when I saw where we 
were, and turned quickly to my brother Frank, who stood 
beside me. He put his arm about me, and with a reassuring 
smile, said: 
"For their sakes be brave and strong, and try to make 
them understand your blessed change." 
I did not try to answer, though I took heart, and entered 
with him into the house. Everything was very quiet—no 
one seemed astir. My brother softly opened a door 
immediately to the right of the entrance, and motioned me 
to enter. I did so, and he closed it behind me, remaining 
himself outside. 
Something stood in the center of the room, and I soon 
discovered that it was a pall. It was a great relief to me to 
see that it was not black, but a soft shade of gray. Someone 
was kneeling beside it, and as I slowly approached I saw it 
was my dear son. He was kneeling upon one knee, with his 
elbow resting on the other knee, and his face buried in his 
hand. One arm was thrown across the casket, as though he 
were taking a last embrace of his "little mother." I saw that 
the form within the casket lay as though peacefully 
sleeping, and was clad in silver gray, with soft white folds 
about the neck and breast. I was grateful that they had 
remembered my wishes so well. 
I put my arms about the neck of my darling son, and 
drew his head gently against my breast, resting my cheek 
upon his bowed head. Then I whispered, "Dearest, I am 
here beside you—living, breathing, strong and well. Will 
you not turn to me, instead of to that lifeless form in the 
casket? It is only the worn-out tenement—I am your living 
He lifted his head as though listening; then, laying his 
hand tenderly against the white face in the casket he 
whispered, "Poor, dear little mother!" and again dropped 
his face into both hands, while his form shook with 
convulsive sobs. 
As I strove to comfort him, the door opened and his lovely 
girl-wife entered. I turned to meet her as she came slowly
towards us. Midway in the room we met, and, taking both 
her hands tenderly in mine, I whispered, "Comfort him, 
darling girl, as only you can; he needs human love." 
She paused a moment irresolutely, looking directly into 
my eyes, then passed on and knelt beside him, laying her 
upturned face against his shoulder. I saw his arm steal 
around her and draw her closely to him, then I passed from 
the room, feeling comforted that they were together. 
Outside the door I paused an instant, then, slowly 
ascending the stairs, I entered the once familiar room, 
whose door was standing ajar. All remained as when I had 
left it, save that no still form lay upon the white bed. As I 
expected, I found my precious husband in this room. He sat 
near the bay window, his arm resting upon the table, and 
his eyes bent sorrowfully upon the floor. My heart's best 
friend sat near him and seemed trying to comfort him. 
When I entered the room our brother Frank arose from a 
chair close beside him and passed out, with a sympathetic 
look at me. I went at once to my dear husband, put my arms 
about him, and whispered: 
"Darling! darling, I am here!" 
He stirred restlessly without changing his position. 
Virginia said, as though continuing a conversation, "I am 
sure she would say you left no thing undone that could 
possibly be done for her." 
"She is right," I whispered. 
"Still she was alone at the last, he moaned.
"Yes, dear, but who could know it was the last? She sank 
so suddenly under the pain. What can I say to comfort you? 
Oh, Will, come home with us! She would want you to, I am 
He shook his head sadly, while the tears were in his eyes, 
as he said: "Work is my only salvation. I must go back in a 
very few days." 
She said no more, and he leaned back wearily in his easy 
chair. I crept more closely to him and suddenly his arms 
closed about me. I whispered, "There, dear, do you not see 
that I am really with you?" 
He was very still, and the room was very quiet but for 
the ticking of my little clock still standing upon the 
dressing-case. Presently I knew by his regular breathing 
that he had found a short respite from his sorrow. I slipped 
gently from his arms and went to my friend, kneeling 
beside her, and folding my arms about her. 
"Virginia, Virginia! You know I am not dead! Why do 
you grieve?" 
She looked over at the worn face of the man before her, 
then dropped her face into her hand, whispering, as though 
she had heard me and would answer: 
"Oh, Bertha darling, how could you leave him?" 
"I am here, dearest! Do realize that I am here!" 
She did not heed me, but sat absorbed in sorrowful 
A few minutes later a stranger entered the room, and in
a low voice said something about its being "near train 
time," and brought my husband his hat. He arose and gave 
his arm to Virginia, and, our son and his wife meeting them 
at the door, they started to descend the stairs. Just then my 
husband paused and cast one sorrowful glance around the 
room, his face white with pain. Our dear daughter stepped 
quickly to him, and, placing, both arms about his neck, 
drew his face down to hers. ("God bless her in all things!" I 
softly prayed.) An instant they stood thus, then stifling his 
emotion, they all passed down the stairs into the room I had 
first entered. 
I kept very close to my dear husband, and never for a 
single instant left him through all the solemn and 
impressive services; through the sad journey to our old 
home; the last rites at the grave; the after-meeting with 
friends; and his final return to the weary routine of labor. 
How thankful I was that I had been permitted to taste, 
during that wonderful day in heaven, the joys of the blessed 
life! How else could I ever have passed calmly through 
those trying scenes, and witnessed the sorrow of those so 
dear to my heart? I recognize the wisdom and mercy of the 
Father in having so ordered it. 
I soon found that my husband was right; work was his 
great refuge. During the day the routine of labor kept brain 
and hands busy, leaving the heart but little opportunity to 
indulge its sorrow. Night was his trying time.—Kind 
friends would stay with him till bedtime; after that he was
alone. He would turn restlessly on his pillow, and often 
arise and go into the adjoining room that had formerly been 
mine, and gaze upon the vacant bed with tearful eyes. It 
took all my powers to in any degree soothe and quiet him. 
After a time my brother Frank and I arranged to spend 
alternate nights with him, that he might never be alone, and 
especially were we with him upon his journeys. We found 
to our great joy that our influence over him was hourly 
growing stronger, and we were able to guide and help him 
in many ways. 
One night as I was silently watching beside him while he 
slept, many months after he was alone, I became conscious 
that evil threatened him. He was sleeping very peacefully, 
and I knew his dreams were happy ones by the smile upon 
his dear face. I passed into the hall of the hotel where he 
was staying, and found it dense with smoke. I hastened 
back to him and called, and tried to shake him, but he slept 
on peacefully. Then I called with all my strength, "Will!" 
close to his ear. 
Instantly he started up and said, "Yes, dear, I am 
coming!" just as he used to do when I called at night. Then 
in a moment he sank back with a sigh upon his pillow, 
murmuring, "What a vivid dream! I never heard her voice 
more distinctly in life." 
"Will!" I again called, pulling him by the hand with an 
my strength, "rise quickly! Your life is in danger!" 
In an instant he was out of bed, upon his feet, and hurriedly
drawing on his clothes. am sure I cannot tell why I am 
doing this," he muttered to himself. "I only feel that I must! 
That surely was her voice I heard." 
"Hurry! Hurry!" I urged. 
He opened the door and met, not only the smoke, but 
tongues of flame. 
"Do not try the stairway—come!" and I drew him past 
the stairway, and through a narrow entrance to a second 
hall beyond, and down a second flight of stairs, filled with 
smoke, but as yet no flame. Another flight still below these, 
then into the open air, where he staggered, faint and 
exhausted, on to the sidewalk, and was quickly helped by 
friends into a place of safety. 
am sure I cannot tell what wakened me," he afterward 
said to a friend. "I dreamed I heard my wife calling me, and 
before I knew it I was dressing myself." 
"You did hear her, I have no doubt," she said. "Are they 
not 'all ministering spirits, sent forth to do service for the 
sake of them that shall inherit salvation'? What lovelier 
service could she do than to thus save the life of one so 
dear to her, whose earth-work was not yet done? Yes, you 
did hear her call you in time to escape. Thank God for such 

"Yes, it must be so," he answered,—with a happy look. 
"Thank God indeed." 
After this he yielded much more readily to our influence, 
and thus began to enjoy, while yet upon earth, the reunion
that so surely awaited us in the blessed life. I often went 
also to the home of our dear children, but there was so 
much to make them happy that they did not need me as 
their father did. Sometimes in hours of great physical 
prostration, especially during the absence of his wife, I 
found that I could quiet the overwrought nerves of my dear 
son, and lead his tired mind to restful thoughts; but with 
youth and strength and love to support him, the time had 

not yet come when my ministrations were essential.

Many friends that traveled with me 
Reached Heaven's portal long ago; 
One by one they left me battling 
With the dark and crafty foe. 
They are watching at the portal, 
They are waiting at the door; 
Waiting only for my coming 
The beloved ones gone before. 
—[Mrs. H. M. Reasoner. 
THE first time I returned to the dear heavenly home after my 
long delay on earth, as I approached the entrance, in the 
company of my brother Frank, we saw a tall young man 
standing close by the open gate, looking wistfully the way we 
came. As we drew near, he said in an almost pathetic voice: 
"Is my mother coming?" 
A closer scrutiny revealed his identity, and I exclaimed 
with joy, extending both hands to him, "My dear Carroll!" 
He smiled a bright welcome as he extended his hands, 
but said wistfully, "I so hoped my mother would return 
with you, aunt, when you came back. Did you see her?" 
"Once only, for a brief moment. She is very happy and 
bears her years well. She will come to you now before 
long, but then you know it will be forever." 
"Yes, I know," he answered brightly. "I will be patient. 
But," he added confidentially, "I so want her to see the 
lovely home I myself am building for her. Will you come 
and see it?" 
"Of course I will, gladly." 
"Yes, if I may"; looking at my brother for his sanction. 
He nodded his head pleasantly as he said: "That is right, 
Carroll. Have her help you in every way you can. I will 
leave you two together, and you will bring her to me later?" 
"Indeed, yes," said my nephew; and we went away 
happily together. 
"Where is this wonderful house, Carroll?" 
"Not very far beyond Mrs. Wickham's," he said. 
We soon reached it, and I was truly charmed with it in 
every way. It was fashioned much like my brother Nell's 
home, and was, like it, built of polished woods. It was only 
partly finished, and was most artistically done. Although 
uncompleted, I was struck with the fact that everything was 
perfect so far as finished. There was no debris anywhere; 
no chips, no shavings, no dust. The wood seemed to have 
been perfectly prepared elsewhere—where, I have no idea. 
The pieces were made to fit accurately, like the parts of a 
great puzzle. It required much skill and artistic taste to 
properly adjust each to its place. This, my nephew, who 
even in the earthly life was quite a mechanical genius, 
seemed to have no difficulty in doing, and the house was 
slowly growing into beauty and symmetry. After showing 
me all over the house, he at last drew aside the hangings
before an entrance, beyond which were two rooms, not 
only entirely finished, but beautifully furnished as well. 
"I finished and furnished these rooms complete, so that if 
mother came before the house was ready, she could occupy 
them at once. You know there is no noise from workmen 
here; no hammering, no unwelcome sounds." 
I thought at once of the Temple of Jerusalem, where, 
during its erection, there was "neither hammer, nor axe, nor 
any tool of iron heard in the house." 
"It is very beautiful, my dear boy," I said enthusiastically. 
It will give her great joy to know you did it for her. But 
what is this—a fireplace?" pausing before a lovely open 
chimney, wherein wood was piled ready to be lighted. "Is it 
ever cold enough here for fires?" 
"It is never cold," he answered, "but the fire here never 
sends out unneeded warmth. We have its cheer and beauty 
and glow, without any of its discomforts. You remember 
my mother loves to sit by an open fire; so I have arranged 
this for her." 
"It is charming! But you did not make the stained-glass 
windows also?" 
"No, I have a friend who has been taught that art, and we 
exchange work. He helps me  with the windows, and I in 
turn help him with his fine woodwork and inlaying. I am 
going to make a 'flower room' for my mother similar to 
yours, only of lilies and violets, which will retain their 
perfume always."
"How lovely! I want to thank you, dear Carroll, for Your 
share in our 'flower room.' It is the most exquisite work I 
ever saw; and it is doubly so when I remember whose 
hands fashioned it." 
"It was a labor of love with us all," he said simply. 
"That is what enhances its beauty for me," I said. "But sit 
here by me now, and tell me about yourself. Do you spend 
all your time at this delightful work?" 
"Oh, no, indeed! Perhaps what we used to call two or 
three hours daily. Much of my time is still spent with my 
Grandfather R—. I do not know what I should have done 
when I first came here, but for him. I was so ignorant about 
this life, and came so suddenly." 
"Yes, dear boy, I know," I said sympathetically. 
He met me at the very entrance, and took me at once 
home, where he and grandma did everything possible to 
instruct and help me. But I was, I am still, far below what I 
ought to be. I would give a year out of this blessed life—I 
would even go back to the old life for an entire year—if I 
only could go to my old friends, or better, into every 
Sunday-school in the world, and beseech the girls and boys 
to try to understand and profit by the instruction there 
received. Why, I used to go to Sunday-school, Sunday after 
Sunday, help sing the hymns, and read the lesson, and 
listen .to all that was said; and I really enjoyed every 
moment of the time. Sometimes I would feel a great 
longing after a better life, but there seemed to be no one to 
especially guide
or help me, and, the greater part of the time, what I heard 
one Sunday was never once spoken of or even thought of 
till another Sunday came, so that the impression made was 
very transient. Why do not boys and girls talk more 
together about what they hear at Sunday-school? We were 
all ready enough to talk about a show of any kind, after it 
was over, but seldom of the Sunday-school, when together 
socially. Why do not teachers take more interest in the 
daily lives of their scholars? Why is there so little really 
helpful talk in ordinary home life? Oh, I wish I could go 
back and tell them this!" 
His face beamed with enthusiasm as he talked, and I, too, 
wished it might be possible for him to do as he desired. But 
alas! "they will not be persuaded even if one arise from the 
dead," I thought. 
"It is now time for me to go with my grandfather," he 
said, rising, "but we will walk together as far as your home; 
and you will let me often see you, will you not?" 
"Gladly," I answered, as we set forth. 
We still conversed of many things, as we walked, and 
when we parted at the door I said, "I am soon to learn how 
to weave lovely draperies; then I can help you, when you 
are ready for them." 
"That will make my work more delightful still," was his. 
reply, as he hastened on in the direction of my father's 
She is not dead—the child of our affection 
But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
And Christ himself doth rule. 
Day after day we think what she is doing 
In those bright realms of air; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 
Behold her grown more fair. 
Hark! 'tis the voice of angels Borne in a song to rue, 
Over the fields of glory, Over the jasper sea! 
—[W. H. Doane. 
AS time passed, and I grew more accustomed to the heavenly 
life around me, I found its loveliness unfolded to me like the 
slow opening of a rare flower. Delightful surprises met me at 
every turn. Now a dear friend, from whom I had parted years 
ago in the earth-life, would come unexpectedly upon me with 
cordial greeting; now one—perhaps on earth greatly admired, 
but from whom I had held aloof, from the fear of unwelcome 
intrusion—would approach me, showing the lovely soul so full 
of responsive kindness and congenial thought,—that I could 
but feel a pang of regret for what I had lost. Then the clear 
revelation of some truth, only partly understood in life, though 
eagerly sought for, would stand out clear and strong before me, 
overwhelming me with its lustre, and perhaps 
showing the close tie linking the earth-life with the divine. 
But the most wonderful to me was the occasional meeting 
with some one whom I had never hoped to meet "over 
there," who, with eager handclasp and tearful eyes, would 
pour forth his earnest thanks for some helpful word, some 
solemn warning, or even some stern rebuke, that had turned 
him, all unknown to myself, from the paths of sin into the 
"life everlasting." Oh, the joy to me of such a revelation! 
Oh, the regret that my earth-life had not been more full of 
such work for eternity! 
My first impulse daily on arousing from happy, blissful 
rest, was to hasten to the "river of life" and plunge into its 
wonderful waters, so refreshing, so invigorating, so 
inspiring. With a heart full of thanksgiving and lips full of 
joyful praise, morning after morning, sometimes in 
company with my brother, sometimes alone, I hastened 
thither, returning always full of new life and hope and 
purpose to our home, where for a time each day I listened 
to the entrancing revelations and instructions of my brother. 
One morning, soon after my return from my first visit to 
earth, as I was on the way to the river, my voice joined to 
the wonderful anthem of praise everywhere sounding, I saw 
a lovely young girl approaching me swiftly, with 
outstretched arms. 
"Dear, dear Aunt Bertha!" she called, as she drew near, 
do you not know me?" 
"My little Mae!" I cried, gathering the dainty creature 
into my arms. "Where did you spring from so suddenly,
dear? Let me look at you again!" holding her a moment at 
arm's length, only to draw her again tenderly to me. 
"You have grown very beautiful, my child. I may say this 
to you here without fear, I am sure. You were always 
lovely; you are simply radiant now. Is it this divine life?" 
"Yes," she said modestly and sweetly; "but most of all 
the being near the Savior so much." 
"Ah, yes, that is it—the being near Him! That will make 
any being radiant and beautiful," I said. 
"He is so good to me; so generous, so tender! He seems 
to forget how little I have done to deserve his care." 
"He knows you love him, dear heart; that means 
everything to him." 
"Love him! Oh, if loving him deserves reward, I am sure 
I ought to have every wish of my heart, for I love him a 
thousand-fold better than anything in earth or heaven. I 
would die for him!" 
The sweet face grew surpassingly radiant and beautiful as 
she talked, and I began to dimly understand the wonderful 
power of Christ among the redeemed in heaven. This dear 
child, so lovely in all mortal graces, so full of earth's 
keenest enjoyments during the whole of her brief life—pure 
and good, as we count goodness below, yet seemingly too 
absorbed in life's gayeties to think deeply of the things she 
yet in her heart revered and honored, now in this blessed. 
life counted the privilege of loving Christ, of being near 
him, beyond every other joy! And how that love refined
and beautified the giver! As a great earthly love always 
shines through the face and elevates the whole character of 
the one who loves, so this divine love uplifts and glorifies 
the giver, until not only the face but the entire person 
radiates the glory that fills the heart. 
"Come with me to the river, Mae," I said presently, after 
we had talked together for some time; "come with me for a 
delightful plunge." 
"Gladly," she said; "but have you ever been to the lake or 
the sea?" 
"The lake or the sea?" I echoed. "No indeed. Are there a 
lake and sea here?" 
"Certainly there are," said Mae, with a little pardonable 
pride that she should know more of the heavenly 
surroundings than I. "Shall we go to the lake to-day, and 
leave the sea for another day? Which shall it be?" 
"Let it be the lake to-day," I said. 
So, turning in an entirely different direction from the 
path that led to the river, we walked joyously on, still 
talking as we went. So much to ask, so much to recall, so 
much to look forward to with joy! 
Once she turned to me and asked quickly: 
"When is my Uncle Will coming?" 
My hand closed tightly over hers, and a sob almost rose 
in my throat, though I answered calmly: 
"That is in God's hands alone; we may not question."
"Yes, I know. His will is always right; but I so long to 
see my dear uncle again; and to 'long' is not to repine." 
She had grown so womanly, so wise, this child of tender 
years, since we parted, that it was a joy to talk with her. I 
told her of my sad errand to earth, and the sorrow of the 
dear ones I had left. 
"Yes, yes, I know it all!" she whispered, with her soft 
arms about me. "But it will not be long to wait. They will 
come soon. It never seems long to wait for anything here. 
There is always so much to keep one busy; so many 
pleasant duties, so many joys—oh, it will not be long!" 
Thus she cheered and comforted me as we walked 
through the ever-varying and always perfect landscape. At 
length she cried, lifting her arm and pointing with her rosy 
"Behold! Is it not divinely beautiful?" 
I caught my breath, then stopped abruptly and covered 
my face with my hands to shield my eyes from the glorified 
scene. No wonder my brother had not sooner brought me to 
this place; I was scarcely yet spiritually strong enough to 
look upon it. When I again slowly lifted my head, Mae was 
standing like one entranced. The golden morning light 
rested upon her face, and, mingling with the radiance that 
had birth within, almost transfigured her. Even she, so long 
an inhabitant here, had not yet grown accustomed to its 
"Look, darling auntie! It is God's will that you should 
see," she softly whispered, not once turning her eyes away
from the scene before her. "He let me be the one to show 
you the glory of this place!" 
I turned and looked, like one but half awakened. Before 
us spread a lake as smooth as glass, but flooded with a 
golden glory caught from the heavens, that made it like a 
sea of molten gold. The blossom- and fruit-bearing trees 
grew down to its very border in many places, and far, far 
away, across its shining waters, arose the domes and spires 
of what seemed to be a mighty city. Many people were 
resting upon its flowery banks, and on the surface of the 
water were boats of wonderful structure, filled with happy 
souls, and propelled by an unseen power. Little children, as 
well as grown persons, were floating upon or swimming in 
the water; and as we looked a band of singing cherubs, 
floating high overhead, drifted across the lake, their baby 
voices borne to us where we stood, in notes of joyful 
"Come," said Mae, seizing my hand, "let us join them" 
and we hastened onward. 
"Glory and honor!" sang the child voices. "Dominion and 
power!" caught up and answered the voices of the vast 
multitude together, and in the strain I found that Mae and I 
were joining. The cherub band floated onward, and away in 
the distance we caught the faint melody of their sweet 
voices, and the stronger cadence of the response from those 
waiting below. 
We stood upon the margin of the lake, and my cheeks 
were tear-bedewed and my eyes dim with emotion. I felt
weak as a little child; but oh, what rapture, what joy 
unspeakable filled and overmastered me! Was I dreaming? 
Or was this indeed but another phase of the immortal life? 
Mae slipped her arm about my neck and whispered. 
Dearest, come. After the rapture—rest." 
I yielded to her passively; I could not do otherwise. She 
led me into the water, down, down into its crystal depths, 
and when it seemed to me we must be hundreds of feet 
beneath the surface, she threw herself prostrate and bade 
me do the same. I did so, and immediately we began to 
slowly rise. Presently I found that we no longer rose, but 
were slowly floating in mid-current, many feet still beneath 
the surface. Then appeared to me a marvel. Look Where I 
would, perfect prismatic rays surrounded me. I seemed to 
be resting in the heart of a prism; and such vivid yet 
delicate coloring, mortal eyes never rested upon. Instead of 
the seven Colors, as we see them here, the colors blended 
in such rare graduation of shades as to make the rays seem 
almost infinite, or they really were so; I could not decide 
As I lay watching this marvelous panorama, for the colors 
deepened and faded like the lights of the aurora borealis, I was 
attracted by the sound of distant music. Although Mae and I no 
longer clung together, we did not drift apart, as one would 
naturally suppose we might, but lay within easy 
speaking-distance of each other, although few words were 
spoken by either of us; the silence seemed too sacred to be 
lightly broken. We lay upon, or rather within,
the water, as upon the softest couch. It required no effort 
whatever to keep ourselves afloat; the gentle undulation of 
the waves soothed and rested us. When the distant music 
arrested my attention, I turned and looked at Mae. She 
smiled back at me, but did not speak. Presently I caught the 
words, "Glory and honor, dominion and power," and I 
knew it was still the cherub choir, although they must now 
be many miles distant. Then the soft tones of a bell—a 
silver bell with silver tongue—fell on my ear, and as the 
last notes died away, I whispered: 
"Tell me, Mae." 
"Yes, dear, I will. The waters of this lake catch the light 
in a most marvelous manner, as you have seen; a wiser 
head than mine must tell you why. They also transmit 
musical sounds—only musical sounds—for a great 
distance. The song was evidently from the distant shore of 
the lake." 
"And the bell?" 
"That is the bell which in the city across the lake calls to 
certain duties at this hour." 
'There never was a sweeter call to duty," I said. 
"Yes, its notes are beautiful. Hark! now it rings a chime." 
We lay and listened, and as we listened a sweet spell 
wrapped me round, and I slept as peacefully as a child on its 
mother's bosom. I awoke with a strange sense of invigoration 
and strength. It was a feeling wholly dissimilar to that
experienced during a bath in the river, yet I could not 
explain how. Mae said: 
"One takes away the last of the earth-life, and prepares 
us for the life upon which we enter; the other fills us to 
overflowing with a draught from the Celestial Life itself." 
And I think the child was right. 
When we emerged from the water we found the banks of 
the lake almost deserted, every one having gone, at the call 
of the bell, to the happy duties of the hour. Groups of 
children still played around in joyous freedom. Some 
climbed the trees that overhung the water, with the agility 
of squirrels, and dropped with happy shouts of laughter into 
the lake, floating around upon its surface like immense and 
beautiful water-lilies or lotus flowers. 
"No fear of harm or danger; no dread of ill, or anxiety 
lest a mishap occur; security, security and joy and peace! 
This is indeed the blessed life," I said, as we stood 
watching the sports of the happy children. 
"I often think how we were taught to believe that heaven 
was where we would wear crowns of gold and stand with 
harps always in our hands! Our Crowns of gold are the 
halos His blessed presence casts about us; and we do not 
need harps to accentuate our songs of praise. We do see the 
crowns, and we do hear the angelic harps, when and as God 
wills it, but our best worship is to do his blessed will," said 
Mae as we turned to go. 
"You are wise in the lore of heaven, my child," I
answered; "how happy I am to learn from one so dear! Tell 
me all about your life here." 
So as we walked she told me the history of her years in 
heaven—her duties, her joys, her friends, her home—with 
all the old-time freedom. I found her home was distant 
from our own—far beyond the spires of the great city 
across the lake—but she added: 
"What is distance in heaven? We come and go at will. 
We feel no fatigue, no haste, experience no delays; it is 
blessed, blessed!" 
Not far from our home we saw a group of children 
playing upon the grass, and in their midst was a beautiful 
great dog, over which they were rolling and tumbling with 
the greatest freedom. As we approached he broke away 
from them and came bounding to meet us, and crouched 
and fawned at my very feet with every gesture of glad 
Do you not know him, auntie?" Mae asked brightly. 
It is dear old Sport!" I cried, stooping and placing my 
arms about big neck, and resting my head on his silken 
Dear old fellow! How happy I am to have you here!" 
He responded to my caresses with every expression of 
delight, and Mae laughed aloud at our mutual joy. 
"I have often wondered if I should not some day find him 
here. He surely deserves a happy life for his faithfulness 
and devotion in the other life. His intelligence and his 
fidelity were far above those of many human beings whom 
we count immortal."
"Did he not sacrifice his life for little Will?" 
"Yes; he attempted to cross the track in front of an 
approaching train, because he saw it would pass between 
him and his little master, and feared he was in danger. It 
cost his life. He always placed himself between any of us 
and threatened danger, but Will he seemed to consider his 
especial charge. He was a gallant fellow—he deserves 
immortality. Dear, dear old Sport, you shall never leave me 
again!" I said, caressing him fondly. 
At this he sprang to his feet, barking joyously, and 
gamboled and frolicked before us the rest of the way home, 
then lay down upon the doorstep, with an upward glance 
and a wag of his bushy tail, as though to say, "See how I 
take you at your word!" 
"He understands every word we say," said Mae. 
"Of course he does; he only lacks speech to make him 
perfect. I somehow hoped he might find it here." 
"He would not be half so interesting if he could talk," 
said Mae. 
"Possibly not. How silken and beautiful his long hair is!" 
"He has his bath in the river every day, and it leaves its 
mark on him also. Do you know I think one of the sweetest 
proofs we have of the Father's loving care for us is, that we 
so often find in this life the things which gave us great 
happiness below. The more unexpected this is, the greater 
joy it brings—I remember once seeing a beautiful little girl
enter heaven, the very first to come of a large and 
affectionate family. I afterward learned that the sorrowful 
cry of her mother was, 'Oh, if only we had someone there 
to meet her, to care for her!' She came, lovingly nestled in 
the Master's own arms, and a little later, as he sat, still 
caressing and talking to her, a remarkably fine Angora 
kitten, of which the child had been very fond, and which 
had sickened and died some weeks before, to her great 
sorrow, came running across the grass and sprang directly 
into her arms, where it lay contentedly. Such a glad cry as 
she recognized her little favorite, such a hugging and 
kissing as that kitten received, made joy even in heaven! 
Who but our loving Father would have thought of such 
comfort for a little child? She had evidently been a timid 
child; but now as the children gathered about her, with the 
delightful freedom they always manifest in the presence of 
the beloved Master, she, looking up confidingly into the 
tender eyes above her, began to shyly tell of the marvelous 
intelligence of her dumb pet, until at last Jesus left her 
contentedly playing among the flowers with the little 
companions who had gathered about her. Our Father never 
forgets us, but provides pleasures and comforts for us all, 
according to our individual needs." 
"When shall I behold the Savior? When shall I meet, face 
to face, him whom my soul so loveth?" my hungry heart 
began to cry, out in its depths. 
Mae, as though understanding the silent cry, placed both
arms about my neck, looked tenderly into my eyes, and 
"You, too, dearest, will see him soon. He never delays 
when the time is ripe for his coming. It will not be long; 
you, too, will see him soon." 
So we parted, each to the duties of the hour.
Sae little noo I ken o' blessed, bonnie place, 
I only ken it's Hame, whaur we shall see His face 
It wad surely be eneuch forever mair to be 
In the glory o' His presence, in oor ain countrie. 
Like a bairn to his mither, a wee birdie to its nest, 
I wad fain be gangin' noo unto my Savior's breast, 
For he gathers in his bosom witless, worthless lambs like me, 
And carries them himsel' to his ain countrie. 
—[Mary Lee Demarest. 
THE following morning my brother said to me, after an 
interesting hour of instruction: 
"Shall we go for the promised visit to Mrs. Wickham now?" 
"Indeed, yes!" I answered eagerly; so we at once set forth. 
We soon reached her lovely home and found her waiting 
at the entrance as though expecting us. After a cordial 
greeting to our friend, my brother said: 
"I will leave you together for that 'long talk' for which I 
know you are both eager, and will go my way to other duties. I 
will find you, later on, at home." The last remark to me. 
"All right," I answered. I am familiar with the way now, 
and need no attendance. 
After he had gone, my friend took me all over her lovely 
home, showing me, with great pleasure, the rooms prepared 
for each beloved member of her earthly household still to 
come. One very large room, into whose open windows at 
each end the blossom- and fruit-laden boughs of the 
immortal trees looked invitingly, was evidently her especial 
care; she whispered to me, "Douglass always did like a 
large room. I am sure he will like this one." And I was also 
Returning down the broad stairway, we found it entered 
into a very large music-room, with broad galleries 
supported by marble columns, running across three sides of 
it, on a level with the second floor. In this gallery was a 
number of musical instruments—harps, viols, and some 
unlike any instruments I had ever seen elsewhere. The 
room itself was filled with easy-chairs, couches and 
window-seats, where listeners could rest and hear the sweet 
harmonies from the galleries. 
"My daughter," my friend explained, who left us in early 
childhood, has received a fine musical training here, and is 
fond of gathering in her young friends and giving us quite 
often a musical treat. You know our old home of 
Springville has furnished some rare voices for the heavenly 
choirs. Mary Allis, Will Griggs, and many others you will 
often hear in this room, I trust." 
We re-entered, from this room, the dainty reception hall 
opening upon the front veranda and outer steps. Here Mrs. 
Wickham drew me to a seat beside her and said: 
"Now, tell me everything of the dear home and all its 
blessed inmates."
Holding each other's hands as we talked, she 
questioning, I answering, things too sacred to be repeated 
here were dwelt upon for hours. At last she said, rising 
I will leave you for a little while—nay, you must not as I 
would have risen, "there is much yet to be said; wait here, I 
will return." 
I had already learned not to question the judgment of 
these wiser friends, and yielded to her will. As she passed 
through the door-way to the inner house, I saw a stranger at 
the front entrance and arose to meet him. He was tall and 
commanding in form, with a face of ineffable sweetness 
and beauty. Where had I seen him before? Surely. surely I 
had met him since I came. "Ah, now I know!" I thought; "it 
is St. John, the beloved disciple." He had been pointed out 
to me one morning by the river-side. 
"Peace be unto this house," was his salutation as he 
How his voice stirred and thrilled me! No wonder the 
Master loved him, with that voice and that face! 
Enter. Thou art a welcome guest. Enter, and I will call 
the mistress," I said, as I approached to bid him welcome. 
"Nay, call her not. She knows that I am here; she will 
return," he said. "Sit thou awhile beside me," he continued, 
as he saw that I still stood, after I had seen him seated. He 
arose and led me to a seat near him, and like a child
I did as I was bidden; still watching, always watching, the 
wonderful face before me. 
You have but lately come?" he said. 
Yes, I am here but a short time. So short that I know not 
how to reckon time as you count it here," I answered. 
"Ah, that matters little," he said with a gentle smile. 
Many cling always to the old reckoning and the earth- 
language. It is a link between the two lives; we would not 
have it otherwise. How does the change impress you? How 
do you find life here?" 
"Ah," I said, "if they could only know! I never fully 
understood till now the meaning of that sublime passage, 
'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into 
the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for 
them that love him.' It is indeed past human conception." I 
spoke with deep feeling. 
"'For them that love him'? Do you believe that all 
Christians truly love him?" he asked. "Do you think they 
love the Father for the gift of the Son and the Son because 
of the Father's love and mercy? Or is their worship ofttimes 
that of duty rather than love?" He spoke reflectively and 
"Oh," I said, "you who so well know the beloved 
Master—who were so loved by him—how can you doubt 
the love he must inspire in all hearts who seek to know 
A radiant glow overspread the wonderful face, which he 
lifted, looking directly at me—the mist rolled away from
before my eyes and I knew him! With a low cry of joy and 
adoration, I threw myself at his feet, bathing them with 
happy tears. He gently stroked my bowed head for a 
moment, then rising, lifted me to his side. 
"My Savior—my King!" I whispered, clinging closely to 
"Yes, and Elder Brother and Friend," he added, wiping 
away tenderly the tears stealing from beneath my closed 
"Yes, yes, 'the chiefest among ten thousand, and the One 
altogether lovely!'" again I whispered. 
"Ah, now you begin to meet the conditions of the new 
life! Like many another, the changing of faith to sight with 
you has engendered a little shrinking, a little fear. That is 
all wrong. Have you forgotten the promise, 'I go to prepare 
a place for you; that where I am, there ye may be also'? If 
you loved me when you could not see me except by faith, 
love me more now when we have really become 'co-heirs 
of the Father.' Come to me with all that perplexes or 
gladdens; come to the Elder Brother always waiting to 
receive you with joy." 
Then he drew me to a seat, and conversed with me long 
and earnestly, unfolding many of the mysteries of the 
divine life. I bung upon his words; I drank in every tone of 
his voice; I watched eagerly every line of the beloved face; 
and I was exalted, uplifted, upborne, beyond the power of 
words to express. At length with a divine smile, he arose.
"We will often meet," he said; and I, bending over, 
pressed my lips reverently to the hand still clasping my 
own. Then laying his hands a moment in blessing upon my 
bowed head, he passed noiselessly and swiftly from the 
As I stood watching the Savior's fast-receding figure, 
passing beneath the flower-laden trees, I saw two beautiful 
young girls approaching the way he went. With arms 
intertwining they came, happily conversing together, sweet 
Mary Bates and Mae Camden. When they saw the Master, 
with a glad Cry they flew to meet him, and as he joyously 
extended .a hand to each, they turned, and each clinging to 
his hand, one upon either side, accompanied him on his 
way, looking up trustingly into his face as he talked with 
them, and apparently conversing with him with happy 
freedom. I saw his face from time to time in profile, as he 
turned and looked down lovingly, first upon one, then the 
other lovely upturned face, and I thought, "That is the way 
he would have us be with him—really as children with a 
beloved elder brother." I watched them till the trees hid 
them from my sight, longing to gather the dear girls to my 
heart, but knowing his presence was to them then more 
than aught else; then I turned and passed softly through the 
house to the beautiful entrance at the rear. Just before I 
reached the door I met my friend Mrs. Wickham. Before I 
could speak, she said: 
"I know all about it. Do not try to speak; I know your
heart is full. I will see you very soon—there, go!" and she 
pushed me gently to the door. 
How my heart blessed her—for indeed seemed sacrilege 
to try to talk on ordinary topics after this blessed 
experience. I did not follow the walk, but kept across the 
flowery turf, beneath the trees, till I reached home. I found 
my brother sitting upon the veranda, and as I ascended the 
steps he rose to meet me. When he looked into my face, he 
took both hands into his for an instant, and simply said, 
very gently: 
"Ah, I see. You have been with the Master!" and stepped 
aside almost reverently for me to enter the house. 
I hastened to my room, and, dropping the draperies 
behind me at the door, I threw myself upon the couch, and 
with closed eyes lived over every instant I had spent in that 
hallowed Presence. I recalled every Word and tone of the 
Savior's voice, and fastened the instructions he had given 
me indelibly upon my memory. I seemed to have been 
lifted to a higher plane of existence, to have drunk deeper 
draughts from the fountain of all good, since I had met 
"Him whom my soul loved." It was a long, blessed 
communion that I held thus with my own soul on that 
hallowed day. When I looked upon the pictured face above 
me, I wondered that I had not at once recognized the Christ, 
the likeness was so perfect. But I concluded that for some 
wise purpose my "eyes were holden" until it was his 
pleasure that I should see him as he is. 
When at last I arose, the soft golden twilight was about
me, and I knelt by my couch, to offer my first prayer in 
heaven. Up to this time my life there had been a constant 
thanksgiving—there had seemed no room for petition. Now 
as I knelt all I could utter over and over, was: 
"I thank Thee, blessed Father; I thank Thee, I thank 
When I at last descended the stairs, I found my brother 
standing in the great "flower-room," and, going to him, I 
said softly: 
"Frank, what do you do in heaven when you want to 
"We praise!" he answered. 
"Then let us praise now," I said. 
And standing there, with clasped hands, we lifted up our 
hearts and voices in a hymn of praise to God; my brother 
with his clear, strong voice leading, I following. As the first 
notes sounded, I thought the roof echoed them; but I soon 
found that other voices blended with ours, until the whole 
house seemed filled with unseen singers. Such a grand 
hymn of praise earth never heard. And as the hymn went 
on, I recognized many dear voices from the past—Will 
Griggs' pathetic tenor, Mary Allis' exquisite soprano, and 
many another voice that wakened memories of the long 
ago. Then as I heard sweet child-voices, and looked up, I 
saw above us such a cloud of radiant baby faces as flooded 
my heart with joy. The room seemed filled with them. 
"Oh, what a life—what a divine life!" I whispered, as,
after standing until the last lingering notes had died away, 
my brother and I returned to the veranda and sat in the 
golden twilight. 
"You are only in the first pages of its record," he said. 
Its blessedness must be gradually unfolded to us, or we 
could not, even here, bear its dazzling glory." 
Then followed an hour of hallowed intercourse, when he 
led my soul still deeper into the mysteries of the glorious 
life upon which I had now entered. He taught me; I 
listened. Sometimes I questioned, but rarely. I was content 
to take of the heavenly manna as it was given me, with a 
heart full of gratitude and love.
Not as a child shall we again behold her: 
For when with rapture wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 
She will not be a child, 
But a fair maiden, in her Father's Mansion, 
Clothed with celestial grace, 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 
Shall we behold her face. 
—[Henry W. Longfellow 
THE next day, my brother being away upon an important 
mission, I started out alone to see if I might not find the 
dear young friends of whom I had caught a fleeting glimpse 
the day before. I knew that all things were ordered aright in 
that happy world, and that sooner or later I should find 
them again; yet I could but hope it might be very soon. I 
recalled the happy light upon their fresh young faces as 
they had met the beloved Master, and I longed to talk with 
them of their life from day to day. From thinking of them, I 
began again to think of my blessed interview with Him, and 
became so absorbed in these thoughts that I was even 
oblivious to the beautiful world around me. Suddenly I 
heard some one say: 
"Surely that is Mrs. Sprague!" and looking up, I saw 
sweet Mary Bates a few steps away, regarding me intently. 
I cried joyfully: 
"My precious Mamie!" 
She flew to me, and folding me in her arms, drew my 
head to her shoulder in the old caressing way, almost 
sobbing in her great joy. 
"Dear, dear little muzzer!"—a pet name often used by 
her in the happy past—" how glad, how glad I am to have 
you here! I could scarcely wait to find you." 
"How did you know I was here, Mamie?" 
"The Master told me," she said softly. "Mae had already 
told me, and we were on the way to find you when we met 
him, and he told us he had just left you. Then we knew we 
must wait a little," she said reverently. 
How my heart thrilled! He had thought about, had spoken of 
me, after we parted! I longed to ask her what he had said, but 
dared not. Seeming to divine my thoughts, she continued: 
"He spoke so tenderly about you, and said we must be 
with you much. Mae had work to do to-day, and as she had 
already seen you once, I came alone. She may be here later 
on. May I stay a long time with you? There is so much to 
tell you, so much to ask about!" 
"Indeed you may. I had started out to find you, when we 
met. Come, dear child, let us return home at once." 
So, clinging to each other, we set out toward my home. 
"What shall I tell you first?" I asked. 
"Everything about the dear ones—every individual 
member of our beloved household. Begin with my 
precious, heart-broken mother;" here her voice broke a 
little, but she
soon continued, "I am with her often, but her great, and I 
fear unreconciled, sorrow, keeps me from being the 
comfort to her I long to be. If only she could spend one 
hour with me here) could know God's wisdom and love as 
we know it, how the cloud would lift from her life! How 
she would see that the two lives, after all, are but one." 
"Yes, dear," I answered, "I always urged her to think of it 
in that light and to trust implicitly in the Father's tender 
care and never-failing love; but it is difficult for us to see 
beyond the lonely hearthstone and the vacant chair. Still, I 
believe she does begin to dimly grasp the comfort you are 
so eager to impart." 
"Ah, if only she knew that I need just that to complete 
my happiness now! We cannot sorrow here as we did on 
earth, because we have learned to know that the Will of the 
Father is always tender and wise; but even heaven can 
never be complete for me while I know that my precious 
mother is forgetful of her many rare blessings, simply 
because I may not be with her, in the flesh, to share them. 
There is my father, and the boys—why, I am as truly hers 
still as they are! I often sit with them all, with her hand in 
mine, or my arms about her—my dear little mother! Why 
must she see me, to recognize this? But this is almost 
complaining, is it not? Some day she will know all—we 
must be patient." 
As we walked on slowly, conversing of the earth-life, 
still in many phases so dear to us. she asking eager 
questions, I
answering as best I could, we saw a group of four persons, 
three women and a man, standing under the trees a little to 
one side of the walk. The man's back was towards us, but 
we at once recognized the Master. The women were all 
strangers, and one of them seemed to have just arrived. Her 
hand the Savior held, as he talked with her, while all were 
intently listening to his words. We regarded the group in 
silence as we slowly passed, not hoping for recognition 
from him at such a time, but just as we were opposite to 
them, "he turned and looked upon" us. He did not 
speak—but oh, that look! So full of tenderness and 
encouragement and benediction! It lifted us, it bore us 
upward, it enthralled and exalted us; and as we passed 
onward, the clasp of our hands tightened, and rapture 
unspeakable flooded our hearts. 
We finished our walk in silence, and sat down on the 
marble steps in the shadow of the overhanging trees. The 
dear child nestled close against my side, and laid her head 
upon my shoulder, while I rested my cheek caressingly 
upon it. After a time I whispered, half to myself, "Was 
there ever such a look!" 
Instantly she raised her head and looking at me, said 
eagerly: "You think so, too? I was sure you would. It is 
always just so. If he is too much engaged to speak to you at 
the time, he just looks at you, and it is as though he had 
talked a long while with you. Is he not wonderful! Why, 
why could we not know him on earth as we know him 
"How long were you here before you met him?" I asked.
"Oh, that is the wonderful part of it! His was the first 
face I looked upon after I left the body. I felt bewildered 
when I first realized that I was free, and I stood for a 
moment irresolute. Then I saw him standing just beside me, 
with that same look upon his face. At first I felt timid and 
half afraid. Then he stretched forth his hand to me, and said 
gently, 'My child, I have come to take care of you; trust me; 
do not be afraid.' Then I knew him, and instantly all fear 
left me, and I clung to him as I would have done to either 
of my brothers. He did not say much to me, but somehow I 
felt that be understood all of my thoughts. After a moment, 
I asked: 
"'May I not remain awhile with mamma? She is 
"'Yes, dear child, as long as you desire,' he answered 
"'Will you also remain?' I asked, for I already felt I 
could not bear to have him leave me. 
"He looked much pleased, as though he divined my 
thought, as he answered: 'Yes, I will never leave you, till 
you are ready to, accompany me.' 
"Then I went to mamma and put my arms about her, and 
presently the Master, too, came and whispered words of 
comfort to her; but I am not sure she recognized our presence, 
though I fancied that she grew more calm beneath my caresses. 
We stayed till all was over. I never left mamma an instant, 
except that twice I stole to poor little Hal's sick
room when he was for a short time alone. I have always felt 
that he recognized my presence more than any of them, he 
lay so still and calm when I talked to him. He seemed to be 
listening. When they gathered for the last time about my 
casket, it seemed to me I must speak, I must show myself to 
them! Could they for one instant have seen my living self, 
standing so calmly in their midst, they would have turned 
forever from the lifeless clay they had embalmed and 
beautified for the tomb. They would have known I was not 
there. But they would not recognize the truth. At last I 
pleaded with the Master to let me show myself once to 
them, there. But he said, 'It is not the Father's will.' 
"After that I accepted fully the Father's will, and soon 
thereafter he brought me here in his arms. And what a 
blessed life it is!" 
I can give only a brief outline of our conversation on that 
first happy day. It is too sacred to be scanned by curious 
eyes. We talked until the golden twilight fell, and we 
watched the little birds nestling in the vines, and heard afar 
the solemnly joyous notes of the angels' choral song, and 
joined our voices in the hymn of praise. Later we went to 
my room, and lay down upon my dainty couch for rest, and 
the last words I heard before sinking into heaven's blissful 
sleep were, tenderly whispered: "Dear, dear little muzzer, I 
am so glad and happy that you are here!" 
More than once the question has been asked, "Was there 
night there?" Emphatically, no! What, for want of a better
designation, we may call "day," was full of a glorious 
radiance, a roseate golden light, which was everywhere. 
There is no language known to mortals that can describe 
this marvelous glory. It flooded the sky; it was caught up 
and reflected in the waters; it filled all heaven With joy and 
all hearts with song. After a period much longer than our 
longest earthly day, this glory mellowed and softened until 
it became a glowing twilight full of peace. The children 
ceased their playing beneath the trees, the little birds 
nestled among the vines, and all who had been busy in 
various ways throughout the day sought Rest and quiet. But 
there was no darkness, no dusky shadows even—only a 
restful softening of the glory.
O sweet and blessed country, 
The home of God's elect! 
O sweet and blessed country 
That eager hearts expect! 
There stand those halls of Zion 
All jubilant with song, 
And bright with many an angel, 
And all the martyr throng. 
—[St. Bernard of Cluny. 
NOT long after this my brother said, "We will go to the 
grand auditorium this morning; it will be a rare day even 
here. Martin Luther is to talk on 'The Reformation; Its 
Causes and Effects,' and this will be supplemented by a talk 
from John Wesley. There may also be other speakers." 
It was not the first time we had visited this great 
auditorium, although I have not hitherto described it. It 
stood upon a slight eminence, and the mighty dome was 
supported by massive columns of alternate amethyst and 
jasper. There Were no walls to the vast edifice; only the 
great dome and supporting columns. A broad platform of 
precious marbles, inlaid in porphyry, arose from the center, 
from which the seats ascended on three sides, forming an 
immense amphitheater. The seats were of cedar wood 
highly polished; and back of the platform were heavy 
hangings of royal purple. An altar of solid pearl stood near 
the center of the platform. 
The great dome was deep and dark in its immensity, so that 
only the golden statues around its lower border were 
distinctly visible. All this I had noted at former visits. 
When we entered, we found the building filled with 
people eagerly waiting for what was to follow. We soon 
were seated and also waiting. Soft strains of melody floated 
about us, from an invisible choir, and before long Martin 
Luther, in the prime of a vigorous manhood, ascended the 
steps and stood before us. It is not my purpose to dwell 
upon his appearance, so familiar to us all, except to say that 
his great intellect and spiritual strength seemed to have 
added to his already powerful physique, and made him a fit 
leader still, even in heavenly places. 
His discourse would of itself fill a volume, and could not 
be given even in outline, in this brief sketch. He held us 
enthralled by the power of his will and his eloquence. 
When he at length retired, John Wesley took his place, and 
the saintly beauty of his face, intensified by the heavenly 
light upon it, was wonderful. His theme was "God's love;" 
and if in the earth-life he dwelt upon it with power, he now 
swept our souls with the fire of his exaltation, until we were 
as wax in his hands. He showed what that love had done for 
us, and how an eternity of thanksgiving and praise could 
never repay it. 
Silence, save for the faint, sweet melody of the unseen 
choir, rested upon the vast audience for some time after he 
left. All seemed lost in contemplation of the theme so
tenderly dwelt upon. Then the heavy curtains back of the 
platform parted, and a tall form, about whom all the glory 
of heaven seemed to center, emerged from their folds and 
advanced toward the middle of the platform. Instantly the 
vast concourse of souls arose to their feet, and burst forth as 
with one voice into that grand anthem in which we had so 
often joined on earth: 
"All hail the power of Jesus' name, 
Let angels prostrate fall; 
Bring forth the royal diadem, 
And crown him Lord of all." 
Such a grand chorus of voices, such unity, such 
harmony, such volume, was never heard on earth. It rose, it 
swelled, it seemed to fill not only the great auditorium, but 
heaven itself. And still, above it all, we heard the voices of 
the angel choir, no longer breathing the soft, sweet melody, 
but bursting forth into paeans of triumphant praise. A flood 
of glory seemed to fill the place, and looking upward we 
beheld the great dome ablaze with golden light, and the 
angelic forms of the no longer invisible choir in its midst, 
with their heavenly harps and viols, and their faces only 
less radiant than that of Him in whose praise they sang. 
And he, before whom all heaven bowed in adoration, stood 
with uplifted face and kingly mien, the very God of earth 
and heaven. He was the center of all light, and a divine 
radiance surrounded him that was beyond compare. 
As the hymn of praise and adoration ceased, all sank slowly
to their knees, and every head was bowed and every face 
covered as the angel choir chanted again the familiar 
"Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy 
Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, 
world without end. Amen, Amen!" 
Slowly the voices died away, and a holy silence fell upon 
us. Presently, slowly and reverently, all arose and resumed 
their places. No, not all. Sweet Mary Bates had 
accompanied us to the sanctuary, and I now noticed that 
she alone still knelt in our midst, with clasped hands and 
radiant uplifted face, her lovely eyes fixed upon the Savior, 
as he still stood waiting before us, with such a look of 
self-forgetful adoration and love as made her herself truly 
divine. She was so rapt I dared not disturb her; but in a 
moment the Master turned and met her adoring eyes with 
such a look of loving recognition, that with a deep sigh of 
satisfied desire, as he turned again, she quietly resumed her 
seat beside me, slipping her little hand into mine with all 
the confidence of a child who feels sure it is understood to 
the utmost. 
As I looked upon the glorious form before us, clothed in 
all the majesty of the Godhead, my heart tremblingly asked: 
"Can this indeed be the Christ-man whom Pilate 
condemned to die an ignominious death upon the cross?" I 
could not accept it. It seemed impossible that any man, 
however vile, could be blind to the divinity so plainly 
revealed in him. 
Then the Savior began to speak, and the sweetness of his 
voice was far beyond the melody of the heavenly choir. And
his gracious words! Would that I could, would that I dared, 
transcribe them as they fell from his lips. Earth has no 
language by which I could convey their lofty meaning. He 
first touched lightly upon the earth-life, and showed so 
wonderfully the link of light uniting the two lives—the past 
with the present. Then he unfolded to us some of the earlier 
mysteries of the blessed life, and pointed out the joyous 
duties just before us. 
When he ceased, we sat with bowed heads as he 
withdrew. Our hearts were so enfolded, our souls so 
uplifted, our spirits so exalted, our whole being so 
permeated with his divinity, that when we arose we left the 
place silently and reverently, each bearing away a heart 
filled with higher, more divine aspirations, and clearer 
views of the blessed life upon which we were permitted to 
I can touch but lightly upon these heavenly joys. There is a 
depth, a mystery to all that pertains to the divine life, which I 
dare not try to describe; I could not if I would, I would not if I 
could. A sacredness enfolds it all that curious eyes should not 
look upon. Suffice it to say, that no joy we know on earth, 
however rare, however sacred, can be more than the faintest 
shadow of the joy we there find; no dreams of rapture, here 
unrealized, approach the bliss of one moment, even, in that 
divine world. No sorrow; no pain; no sickness; no death; no 
partings; no disappointments; no tears but those of joy; no 
broken hopes; no mislaid plans; no night, nor storm, nor 
shadows even; but light and joy and
love and peace and rest forever and forever. "Amen," and 
again my heart says revently, "Amen."
Jerusalem! Jerusalem! 
Thy streets of pearl and gold 
Are trod by the blest feet of them 
We knew and loved of old. 
Their voices full of calm delight 
Steal through the radiant air 
Jerusalem! Jerusalem! 
Our hearts are with them there! 
AS the days passed I found my desires often led me to the 
sacred lake, sometimes alone, sometimes with one or more 
of my own family circle—my revered father and precious 
mother, my dear brother and sister, and many beloved 
friends both within and without the bond of consanguinity. 
It was always to me an inspiration and an uplifting. I never 
could grow sufficiently familiar with it to overcome the 
first great awe with which it inspired me; but I found that 
the oftener I bathed or floated and slept in its pellucid 
current, the stronger I grew in spirit, and the more clearly I 
comprehended the mysteries of the world about me. 
My almost daily intercourse with the dear ones of our 
home life from whom I had so long been separated, served 
to restore to me the home feeling that had been the greatest 
solace of my mortal life, and I began to realize that this was 
indeed the true life, instead of that probationary life which 
we had always regarded as such. I think it was the day after 
my return from my first visit to earth, that, as 
I had started to cross the sward lying between my father's 
house and our own, I heard my name called in affectionate 
tones. I turned and saw approaching me a tall, fine-looking 
man, whose uncovered head was silvery white, and whose 
deep blue eyes looked happily and tenderly into mine, as he 
drew near. 
"Oliver!" I cried with outstretched hands of welcome, 
dear, dear Oliver!" It was the husband of my eldest sister, 
always dearly loved. 
"I did not know that you had come, until a few moments 
since, when our father told me. It is delightful to have you 
here; it seems more like the old life to see you than any of 
the others who are here we were together so much during 
the last years of my stay," he said, grasping my hands 
warmly. "Where are you going now? Can you not come 
with me awhile? I was thinking only a few days ago how 
much I wished you could be here a little while before Lu 
came; you know her tastes so well. And now here you are! 
So often our unspoken wishes are thus gratified in heaven!" 
"Is my sister coming soon?" I asked a little later. 
"That I cannot confidently say; but you know the years 
of the earth-life are passing, and her coming cannot be 
much longer delayed. Can you come with me now?" 
"Gladly," I said, turning to walk with him. 
"It is only a little way from here," he said. "Just where 
the river bends. Lu loves the water so, I chose that spot in 
preference to one even nearer your home."
"This is truly enchanting!" I cried, as we drew near the 
place. "I have not been this way before." 
"I want you to see the river from her room windows," he 
said; "I know you will enjoy it." 
We entered the truly beautiful house, built of the purest 
white granite, so embedded in the foliage of the flower- 
laden trees that from some points only glimpses of its fine 
proportions could be seen. 
"She loves flowers so much—will she not enjoy these 
trees?" he asked with almost boyish delight. 
"Beyond everything," I answered. 
We passed through several delightful rooms on the lower 
floor, and, ascending the stairway, which in itself was a 
dream of beauty, entered the room he was so anxious I 
should see. I stopped upon the threshold with an 
exclamation of delight, while he stood watching with keen 
enjoyment the expression on my face. 
"It is the most delightful room I ever saw!" I cried 
The framework of couches, chairs and desk was of pure and 
spotless pearl, upholstered in dim gold; soft rugs and draperies 
everywhere; and through the low window, opening upon the 
flower-wreathed balcony, so enchanting a view of the broad, 
smooth river below, that again I caught my breath in delight. A 
thousand exquisite tints from the heavens above were reflected 
upon the tranquil waters, and a boat floating on the current was 
perfectly mirrored in the opaline-
tinted ripples. Far across the shining waters the celestial 
hills arose, with domes and pillared temples and sparkling 
fountains perceptible everywhere. When at last I turned 
from this entrancing view, I saw on the opposite wall, 
smiting down upon me, the same Divine face that I daily 
looked upon in my own room at home. 
We descended the stairs without a word, then I could 
only falter: 
"Only heaven could give such perfection in everything!" 
Oliver pressed my hand sympathetically, and let me 
depart without a word. 
Many months, by earthly time, had passed since that day, 
and many times I had visited that lovely home and held 

sweet converse with one I loved so well. I could suggest 
nothing that would add to the beauty of the place, but we 
talked of it together, and planned for and anticipated the joy 
of her coming. 
One day I found him absent, and though I waited long 
for his return, he came not. I had not seen him for several 
days, and concluded he had been sent upon some mission 
by the Master. As I passed onward to our home, I met a 
group of happy young girls and boys, of different ages, 
hastening the way I had come, with their arms full of most 
beautiful flowers. As they drew near I saw they Were the 
grandchildren of my dear sister—Stanley and Mary and 
David and Lee and little Ruth. As soon as they saw me, 

they all with one accord began to shout joyfully:

Grandma is coming! Grandma is coming! We are taking 
flowers to scatter everywhere! We are so glad!" 
"How do you know she is coming, children? I have just 
been to the house—no one is there!" 
"But she is coming," said little Lee. "We had a message 
from grandpa, and he is to bring her." 
"Then I will tell the others, and we will all come to 
welcome her," I said. 
With a great joy in my heart I hastened onward to my 
father's house. I found them awaiting me, full of joyful 
"Yes, we also have had word," my father said, "and were 
only awaiting your return, that we might go together." 
"Then I will go for brother Frank, that he also may 
accompany us," I said. 
"He is here!" said a genial voice; and, looking up, I saw 
him at the door. 
"Col. Sprague is always present when he is needed," said 
my father cordially. 
So we set forth, a goodly company, to welcome this 
dearly loved one to her home my father, my mother, and 
my sister Jodie; my brother the doctor, and his two fair 
daughters; my Aunt Gray, her son Martin, and his wife and 
daughter; my brother Frank and I. 
As we approached the house we heard the sound of 
joyous voices, and looking in, we saw my sister standing in 
the room, her husband's arm about her, and the happy 
thronged around them, like humming-birds among the 
flowers. But what was this? Could this radiant creature, 
with smooth brow and happy eyes, be the pale, wan woman 
I had last seen, so bowed with suffering and sorrow? I 
looked with eager eyes. Yes, it was my sister; but as she 
was full thirty years ago, with the bloom of health upon her 
face, and the light of youth in her tender eyes. I drew back 
into the shadow of the vines and let the others precede me, 
for my heart was full of a strange, triumphant joy. This 
truly was the "victory over death" so surely promised by 
our risen Lord. I watched the happy greetings, and the way 
she took each beloved one into her tender arms. When, one 
by one, she had greeted and embraced them all, I saw her, 
with a strange yearning at my heart, turn and look wistfully 
around, then whisper to my father: 
"Is not my little sister here?" 
I could wait no longer, but, hastening to her side, cried: 
"Dearest, I am here! Welcome! Welcome!" 
She folded me to her heart and held me fast in her warm 
arms, she showered me with kisses upon my upturned face, 
while I returned each loving caress, and laughed and cried 
for very gladness that she had come at last. Oh, what a 
family reunion was that inside the walls of heaven! And 
how its bliss was heightened by the sure knowledge (not 
the hope) that there should be no partings for us henceforth 
My brother Oliver looked on with proud and happy eyes.
The hour for which he had longed and waited had come to 
him at last; his home-life would now be complete for 
evermore. I told him how I  waited for him that day, and he 
said, "We saw you as you left the house, but were too 
distant to call you. I  taken her into the river, and she 
looked at and admired the house very greatly before she 
knew it was our home." 
"What did she do when she saw her lovely room?" 
"Cried like a child, and clung to me, and said, 'This more 
than repays us for the lost home of earth!' If the children 
not come, I think she would have been at that window 
still!" he said, laughing happily. 
"I am glad you had her all to yourself at the first," I 
whispered; "you deserved that happiness, dear, if any man 
ever did." 
He smiled gratefully, and looked over at his wife, where 
she stood the center of a happy group. 
"Does she not took very young to you, Oliver?" I asked. 
"The years rolled from her like a mask, as we sat beneath 
the water in the river. Ah, truly in those life-giving waters 

we do all 'renew our youth'; but she became at once 
uncommonly fair and young." 
"Her coming has brought youth likewise to you," I said, 
noting his fresh complexion and his sparkling eyes; "but I 
hope it will not change your silver hair, for that is to you a 
crown of glory." 

He looked at me a moment critically, then said:

"I wonder if you realize the change that has likewise 
come to you in this wonderful clime?" 
"I?" I said, a little startled at the thought; "I confess I 
have not once thought of my personal appearance. I realize 
what, through the Father's mercy, this life has done for me 
spiritually, but as for the other, I have never given it an 
instant's thought." 
"The change is fully as great in your case as in Lu's, 
though with you the change has been more gradual," he 
I felt a strange thrill of joy that when my dear husband 
should come to me, he would find me with the freshness 
and comeliness of our earlier years. It was a sweet thought, 
and my heart was full of gratitude to the Father for this 
further evidence of his loving care. So we talked together 
as the hours sped, until my father said: 
"Come, children; we must not forget that this dear 
daughter of mine needs rest this first day in her new home. 
Let us leave her and her happy husband to their new-found 
So with light hearts we went our way, and left them to 
spend their first hours in heaven together
Holy, holy, holy! All the saints adore Thee, 
Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea; 
Cherubim and Seraphim falling down before Thee, 
Which wert, and art, and evermore shalt be. 
—[Bishop Heber. 
AFTER we had left my parents and friends on our return 
from our welcome to my sister, my brother hastened away 
upon some mission, and I walked on alone toward the 
sacred lake. I felt the need of a rest in its soothing waters 
after the exciting scenes through which I had passed. I had 
hitherto visited the lake in the early morning hours; it was 
now something past noontide of the heavenly day, and but 
few persons lingered on the shore. The boats that sped 
across its calm surface seemed to be filled rather with those 
intent upon some duty than simply pleasure-seekers. I 
walked slowly down into the water, and soon found myself 
floating, as at former times, in midcurrent. The wonderful 
prismatic rays that in the early morning were such a 
marvel, now blended into a golden glory, with different 
shades of rose and purple flashing athwart their splendor. 
To me it seemed even more beautiful than the rainbow 
tints; just as the maturer joys of our earthly life cast into 
shadow, somewhat, the more evanescent pleasures of 
youth. I could but wonder what its evening 
glories would be, and resolved to come at some glowing 
twilight, and see if they would not remind me of the calm 
hours of life's closing day. I heard the chimes from the 
silver bell of the great city ringing an anthem as I lay, and 
its notes seemed to chant clearly: 
"Holy! Holy! Holy! Lord God Almighty!" The waters 
took up the song and a thousand waves about me 
responded, "Holy! Holy! Holy!" 
The notes seemed to "vibrate," if I may use the 
expression, upon the waves, producing a wondrously 
harmonious effect. The front row in the battalion of 
advancing waves softly chanted "Holy" as they passed 
onward; immediately the second roll of waves took up the 
word that the first seemed to have dropped as it echoed the 
second "Holy" in the divine chorus, then it, too, passed 
onward to take up the second note as the third advancing 
column caught the first; and so it passed and echoed from 
wave to wave, until it seemed millions of tiny waves about 
me had taken up and were bearing their part in this grand 
crescendo—this wonderful anthem. Language fails me—I 
cannot hope to convey to others this experience as it came 
to me. It was grand, wonderful, overpowering. I lay and 
listened until my whole being was filled with the divine 
melody, and I seemed to be a part of the great chorus, then 
I, too, lifted up my voice and joined with full heart in the 
thrilling song of praise. 
I found that, contrary to my usual custom, I floated
rapidly away from the shore whence I had entered the 
water, and after a time was conscious that I was 
approaching a portion of the lake shore I never yet visited. 
Refreshed and invigorated, I ascended the sloping banks, to 
find myself in the midst of a lovely suburban village, 
similar to the one where our own home was situated. There 
was some difference in the architecture or construction of 
the houses, though they were no less beautiful than others I 
had seen. Many were constructed of polished woods, and 
somewhat resembled the finest of the chalets one sees in 
Switzerland, though far surpassing them in all that gives 
pleasure to the artistic eye. 
As I wandered on, feasting my eyes upon the lovely 
views about me, I was particularly pleased by the 
appearance of an unusually attractive house. Its broad 
verandas almost overhung the waters of the lake, the wide 
low steps running on one side of the house quite to the 
water's edge. Several graceful swans were leisurely drifting 
about with the current, and a bird similar to our Southern 
mocking-bird, but with softer voice, was singing and 
swinging in the low branches overhead. There were many 
larger and more imposing villas near, but none possessed 
for me the charm of this sweet home. 
Beneath one of the large flowering trees close by this 
cottage home, I saw a woman sitting, weaving with her 
delicate hands, apparently without shuttle or needle, a 
snow-white gossamer-like fabric that fell in a soft fleecy 
heap at her side as the work progressed. She was so very 
small in
stature that at first glance I supposed she was a child; but a 
closer scrutiny showed her to be a mature woman, though 
with the glow of youth still upon her smooth cheek. 
Something familiar in her gestures, rather than her 
appearance, caused me to feel that it was not the first time 
we had met; and growing accustomed now to the delightful 
surprises that met me everywhere in this world of rare 
delights, I drew near to accost her, when, before I could 
speak, she looked up, and the doubt was gone. 
"Maggie!" "Mrs. Sprague dear!" we cried 
simultaneously, as, dropping her work from her hands, she 
stepped quickly up to greet me. 
Our greeting was warm and fervent, and her sweet face 
glowed with a welcome that reminded me of the happy 
days when we had met, in the years long gone, by the shore 
of that other beautiful lake in the world of our earth-life. 
"Now I know why I came this way to-day—to find you, 
dear," I said, as we sat side by side, talking as we never 
talked on earth; for the sweet shyness of her mortal life had 
melted away in the balmy air of heaven. 
"What is this lovely fabric you are weaving?" I presently 
asked, lifting the silken fleecy web in my fingers as I 
"Some draperies for Nellie's room," she said. "You know 
we two have lived alone together so much, I thought it 
would seem more like home to her, to us both, if we did the 
same here. So this cottage is our own special home, just a 
step from Marie's," pointing to an imposing house a few
yards distant, "and I am fitting it up as daintily as I can, 
especially her room." 
"Oh, let me help you, Maggie dear!" I said. "It would be 
such a pleasure to me." 
She hesitated an instant, with something of the old-time 
shyness, then said: 
"That is so like you, dear Mrs. Sprague. I have set my 
heart on doing Nellie's room entirely myself—there is no 
hurry about it, you know—but if you really would enjoy it, 
I shall love to have you help me in the other rooms." 
"And will you teach me how to weave these delicate 
"Yes, indeed. Shall I give you your first lesson now?" 
Lifting the dainty thread, she showed me how to toss and 
wind it through my fingers till it fell away in shining folds. 
It was very light and fascinating work, and I soon was 
weaving it almost as rapidly as she did. 
"Now, I can help Carroll!" was my happy thought, as I 
saw the shimmering fabric grow beneath my hands. 
"Tomorrow I will go and show him how beautifully we can 
drape the doors and windows." 
So in heaven our first thought ever is to give pleasure to 

"You are an apt scholar," said Maggie, laughing happily; 
and what a charming hour you have given me!" 
"What a charming hour you have given me, my dear!" I 


When we parted it was with the understanding that every 
little while I was to repeat the visit. When I urged her 
likewise to come to me, the old-time shyness again 
appeared, as she said: 
"Oh, they are all strangers to me, and here we shall be 
entirely alone. You come to me." 
So I yielded, as in heaven we never seek to gain reluctant 
consent for any pleasure, however dear; and many were the 
happy hours spent with her in the cottage by the lake.
"I take these little Iambs," said He 
And lay them in my breast; 
Protection they shall End in Me, 
In Me be ever blest." 
—[Samuel Stennett. 
ON one of my walks about this time, I chanced upon a 
scene that brought to mind what Mae had said to me about 
the Savior's love for little children. I found him sitting 
beneath one of the flowering trees upon the lake shore, with 
about a dozen children of all ages clustered around him. 
One dainty little tot, not more than a year old, was nestled 
in his arms, with her sunny head resting confidingly upon 
his bosom, her tiny hands filled with the lovely water-lilies 
that floated everywhere on the waters. She was too young 
to realize how great her privilege was, but seemed to be 
enjoying his care to the utmost. The others sat at his feet, or 
leaned upon his knees; and one dear little fellow, with 
earnest eyes, stood by him, leaning upon his shoulder, 
while the Master's right arm encircled him. Every eye was 
fixed eagerly upon Jesus, and each child appeared alert to 
catch every word he said. He seemed to be telling them 
some very absorbing story, adapted to their childish tastes 
and capacities. I sat down upon the sward among a group of 
people, a little removed from the children, and tried to 
hear what he was saying, but we were too far away to catch 
more than a sentence now and then, and in heaven one 
never intrudes upon another's privileges or pleasures. So we 
simply enjoyed the smiles and eager questions and 
exclamations of the children, and gathered a little of the 
tenor of the story from the disjointed sentences which 
floated to us. 
"A little child lost in the dark woods of the lower 
world—" we heard the Master say, in response to the 
inquiring looks of the interested children. Lions and 
bears—" came later on. Where was his papa?" asked an 
anxious voice. 
We could not hear the reply, but soon a little fellow 
leaning upon the Savior's knee, said confidently: "No lions 
and bears up here!" 
"No," he replied, "nothing to harm or frighten my little 
children here!" 
Then as the story deepened and grew in interest, and the 
children pressed more closely about the Master, he turned 
with a sweet smile and we could see an increased pressure 
of the encircling arm—to the little fellow with the earnest 
eyes who leaned upon his shoulder, and said: 
"What, Leslie, would you have done, then?" 
With a bright light in his eyes and a flush on his fair 
cheek, the child answered quickly and emphatically: 
"I should have prayed to Thee and asked Thee to 'close 
the lion's mouth,' as Thou didst for Daniel, and Thou 
wouldst have done it!"
"Ah," I thought, "could C—— and H—— see the look 
the beloved Master cast upon their boy as he made his 
brave reply, they would be comforted even for the absence 
of their darling." 
Lost in these thoughts, I heard no more that passed, until 
an ecstatic shout from the little folks proclaimed how 
satisfactorily the story had ended, and, looking up, I saw 
the Savior passing onward, with the baby still in his arms, 
and the children trooping about him. 
"Of such is the kingdom of heaven." How well he 
understood! How much he loved them! 
I, too, arose and started homeward. I had not gone far 
before I met my brother Frank, who greeted me with: 
"I am on my way to the city by the lake; will you 
accompany me?" 
"It has been long my wish to visit the city. I only waited 
until you thought it wise for me to go," I answered. 
"You are growing so fast in the knowledge of the heavenly 
ways," he said, "that I think I might venture to take you almost 
anywhere with me now. You acquire the knowledge for the 
very love of it; not because you feel it your duty to know what 
we would have you learn. Your eagerness to gather to yourself 
all truth, and at the same time your patient submission in 
waiting, ofttimes when I know the trial is great, have won for 
you much praise and love from our dear Master, who watches 
eagerly the progress of us all in the divine life. I think it only 
right that you should
know of this; we need encouragement here as well as in the 
earth-life, though in a different way. I tell you this by 
divine permission. I think it will not be long before He 
trusts you with a mission; but this I say of myself, not by 
his command." 
It would be impossible for me to convey, in the language 
of earth, the impression these words of commendation left 
upon me. They were so unexpected, so unforeseen. I had 
gone on, as my brother said, eagerly gathering the 
knowledge imparted to me, with a genuine love for the 
study of all things pertaining to the blessed life, without a 
thought that I in any way deserved commendation for so 
doing; and now I had won the approbation of the Master 
himself! The happiness seemed almost more than I had 
strength to bear. 
"My brother, my dear brother!" was all I could say, in my 
deep joy, stopping suddenly and looking up into his face 
with grateful tears. 
"I am so glad for you, little sister!" he said, warmly 
clasping my hand. "There are, you see, rewards in heaven; 
it does my soul good that you have unconsciously won one 
of these so soon." 
I would I might record in detail the precious words of 
wisdom that fell from his lips; I would that I might recount 
minutely the events of that wonderful life as it was 
unfolded to me day by day; but I can only say, "I may not." 
When I undertook to make a record of that 
never-to-be-forgotten time, I did not realize how many 
serious difficulties
I would have to encounter; how often I would have to 
pause and consider if I might really reveal this truth or 
paint that scene as it appeared to me. The very heart has 
often been left out of some wonderful scene I was 
attempting to describe, because I found I dared not reveal 
its sacred secret. I realize painfully that the narrative, as I 
am forced to give it, falls infinitely short of what I hoped to 
make it when I began. But bear with me; it is no fancy 
sketch I am drawing, but the veritable life beyond, as it 
appeared to me when the exalted spirit rose triumphant 
over the impoverished flesh, made slavishly subservient 
through suffering. 
My brother and I walked slowly back to the margin of the 
lake, where we stepped into a boat lying near the shore, and 
were at once transported to the farther shore of the lake, and 
landed upon a marble terrace the entrance to the city by the 
take. I never knew by what power these boats were propelled. 
There were no oarsmen, no engine, no sails, upon the one in 
which we crossed the water; but it moved steadily onward till 
we were safely landed at our destination. Luxuriously 
cushioned seats were all around it, and upon one of them lay a 
musical instrument, something like a violin, a]though it  no 
bow, but seemed to be played by the fingers alone. Upon 
another seat lay a book. I picked it up and opened it; it seemed 
to be a continuation of that book that has stirred and thrilled 
millions of hearts in the mortal life—"The Greatest Thing in 
the World." As I glanced through it while we journeyed, I 
grasped the truth that this
great mind already had grappled with the mighty things of 
eternity and given food to immortals, even as he had to 
those in mortal life in the years gone by. 
I was roused from my thoughts by the boat touching the 
marble terrace, and found my brother already standing 
waiting to assist me to the shore. Passing up a slight 
acclivity, we found ourselves in a broad street that led into 
the heart of the city. The streets I found were all very broad 
and smooth, and paved with marble and precious stones of 
every kind. Though they were thronged with people intent 
on various duties, not an atom of debris, or even dust, was 
visible anywhere. There seemed to be vast business houses 
of many kinds, though I saw nothing resembling our large 
mercantile establishments. There were many colleges and 
schools—; many book and music-stores and publishing 
houses; several large manufactories, where, I learned, were 
spun the fine silken threads of manifold colors which were 
so extensively used in the weaving of the draperies I have 
already mentioned. There were art rooms, picture galleries 
and libraries, and many lecture halls and vast auditoriums. 
But I saw no churches of any kind. At first this somewhat 
confused me, until I remembered that there are no creeds in 
heaven, but that all worship together in harmony and 
love—the children of one and the same loving Father. 
"Ah," I thought, "what a pity that that fact, if no other in the 
great economy of heaven, could not be proclaimed to the 
inhabitants of earth! How it would do
away with the petty contentions, jealousies and rivalries of 
the church militant! No creeds in heaven! No controverted 
points of doctrine! No charges of heresy brought by one 
professed Christian against another! No building up of one 
denomination upon the ruins or downfall of a different sect! 
But one great universal brotherhood whose head is Christ, 
and whose corner-stone is Love." I thought of the day we 
had listened in the great auditorium at home to the divine 
address of our beloved Master; of the bowed heads and 
uplifted voices of that vast multitude as every voice joined 
in the glorious anthem, "Crown Him Lord of All!" and I 
could have wept to think of the faces that must some day be 
bowed in shame when they remember how often they have 
in mortal life said to a brother Christian, "Stand aside; I am 
holier than thou!" 
We found no dwelling-houses anywhere in the midst of 
the city, until we came to the suburbs. Here they stood in 
great magnificence and splendor. But one pleasing fact was 
that every home  its large door-yard, full of trees and 
flowers and pleasant walks; indeed, it was everywhere, 
outside of the business center of the town, like one vast 
park dotted with lovely houses. There was much that 
charmed, much that surprised me in this great city, of 
which I may not fully speak, but which I never can forget. 
We found in one place a very large park, with walks and 
drives and fountains and miniature lakes and shaded seats, 
but no dwellings or buildings of any kind, except an 
immense circular open
temple capable of seating many hundred; and where, my 
brother told me, a seraph choir assembled at a certain hour 
daily and rendered the oratorios written by the great 
musical composers of earth and heaven. It had just 
departed, and the crowd who had enjoyed its divine music 
yet lingered as though loath to leave a spot so hallowed. 
"We will remember the hour," my brother said, "and 
come again when we can hear them."
Not all the archangels can tell 
The joys of that holiest place, 
Where the Father is pleased to reveal 
The light of His heavenly face. 
—[Charles Wesley. 
And the temple was filled with smoke from the glory of 
God, and from his power."—Rev. 15: 8. 
STILL passing through the park, we came out upon the 
open country, and walked some distance through flowery 
meadows and undulating plains. At length we entered a 
vast forest whose great trees towered above us like swaying 
giants. The day was well-nigh spent—the day so full of joy 
and glad surprises and happy hours! Full as it had been I 
felt there was still something left for me, deep hidden in the 
twilight-valley of the day; something that held my soul in 
awe, as the last moments preceding the Holy Sacrament. 
My brother walked by me, absorbed in silent thought, but 
with a touch beyond even his usual gentleness. I did not ask 
where we were going at that unusual hour, so far from 
home, for fear and doubt and questionings no longer vexed 
the quiet of my soul. Although the forest was dense, the 
golden glow of the twilight rested beneath the trees, and 
sifted down through the quivering branches overhead, as 
though falling through the windows of some grand 
At length we emerged from the forest upon a vast plain 
that stretched out into illimitable space before us, and far 
away we faintly heard the thunder of the breaking waves of 
that immortal sea of which I had heard so much but had not 
yet seen. But for their faint and distant reverberation the 
silence about us was intense. We stood a moment upon the 
verge of the forest, then as we advanced a few steps into 
the plain I became aware that immediately to our right the 
ground rose into quite an elevation; and, as I turned, a sight 
broke upon my bewildered eyes that the eternal years of 
earth and heaven can never efface. Upon the summit of this 
gentle slope a Temple stood, whose vast dome, massive 
pillars and solid walls were of unsullied pearl, and through 
whose great mullioned windows shone a white radiance 
that swallowed up the golden glow of the twilight and made 
it Its own. I did not cry aloud nor hide my face, as at former 
revelations; but I sank slowly to my knees, and, crossing 
my hands upon my breast, with uplifted face, stilled heart 
and silent lips, laid my whole being in worship at His feet 
"who sitteth upon the throne." How long I knelt thus I 
know not. Even immortal life seemed lost before that 
greatest of celestial mysteries. At length my brother, who 
had been silently kneeling beside me, arose, and, lifting me 
to my feet, whispered gently, it Come." 
I felt rather than saw that his face was colorless with the 
depth of his emotion, and I yielded to his guidance in silence. A 
long flight of low, broad steps, in gradations, rose from
almost where we stood to the very door of the Temple. 
They, too, were of solid pearl, bordered on either side by 
channels paved with golden stones through which coursed 
crystal waters that met and mingled in one stream far out 
upon the plain. Ascending these steps, we entered the 
Temple, and for a moment stood in silence. I do not know 
how it was, but in that brief instant—it may have been 
longer than I knew—every detail of that wonderful interior 
was fastened upon my memory as a scene is photographed 
upon the artist's plate. Heretofore it had taken repeated 
visits to a room to enable me to describe it correctly in 
detail, but this, in a lightning's, flash, was stamped upon the 
tablet of my memory indelibly for all time—nay, for 
The immense dome, at that moment filled with a 
luminous cloud, was upheld by three rows of massive 
pillars of gold. The walls and floors were of pearl, as also 
the great platform that filled at least one-third of the 
Temple upon the eastern side. There were no seats of any 
kind. The great golden pillars stood like rows of sentinels 
upon the shining floor. A railing of gold ran entirely around 
the platform upon the three sides, so that it was inaccessible 
from the body of the Temple. Beneath this railing, upon the 
temple-floor, a kneeling-step passed around the platform, 
also of pearl. In the center of the platform an immense altar 
of gold arose, supported by seraphs of gold with outspread 
wings, one at each corner; and underneath it, in a great 
pearl basin, a fountain of sparkling water played, and I 
knew intuitively
it was the source of the magical river that flowed through 
the gardens of heaven and bore from us the last stains of 
death and sin. 
Nothing living, beside ourselves, was within the Temple 
except two persons who knelt with bowed heads beside the 
altar-rail upon the farther side; but by the altar stood four 
angels, one upon either side, dressed in flowing garments 
of white, with long, slim trumpets of gold uplifted in their 
hands, as though waiting in expectancy the signal for their 
trumpet call. Long draperies of silvery gossamer hung in 
heavy folds back of the altar platform. Suddenly, in the 
moment that we looked, we saw the draperies tremble and 
glow until a radiance far beyond the splendor of the sun at 
midday shone through them, and the whole Temple was 
"filled with the glory of the Lord." We saw, in the midst of 
the luminous cloud that filled the dome, the forms of 
angelic harpers, and as we dropped with bowed heads 
beside the altar-rail and bid our faces from the "brightness 
of His coming," we heard the trumpet-call of the four 
angels about the altar, and the voices of the celestial 
harpers as they sang: 
"Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty! 
All thy works shall praise thy name, in earth, and sky, 
and sea. 
Holy, Holy, Holy, merciful and mighty, 
God in three persons—blessed Trinity. Amen!" 
The voices softly died away; the last notes of the golden 
trumpets had sounded; "and there was silence in heaven." 
We knew that the visible glory of the Lord was, for the
present, withdrawn from the Temple which is his throne; 
still we knelt with bowed beads in silent worship before 
him. When at last we arose I did not lift my eyes while 
within the Temple; I desired it to remain upon my memory 
as it appeared when filled with his glory. 
We walked some time in silence, I leaning upon my 
brother's arm, for I yet trembled with emotion. I was 
surprised that we did not return into the forest, but went 
still farther out upon the plain. But when I saw that we 
approached the confluence of the two streams which issued 
from the fountain beneath the altar, I began to understand 
that we would return by way of the river, instead of by 
forest and lake. 
We reached the stream, at length, and, stepping into a 
boat that lay by the shore, we were soon floating with the 
current toward home. We passed through much beautiful 
scenery on our course that I had not seen before, and which 
I resolved I would visit in the future, when leisure from my 
daily duties would permit. Lovely villas, surrounded by 
beautiful grounds stretching directly up from the water's 
edge, lay on both sides of the river, and formed a panorama 
upon which the eye never tired of Testing. Toward the end 
of the journey we passed my sister's lovely home, and we 
could plainly see her and her husband drinking in the scene 
with enraptured eyes, from the window of her own room. 
My brother and I were both silent the greater part of the 
time during our journey homeward, though each noted
with observant eyes the signs of happy domestic life by 
which we were surrounded on every side. The verandas and 
steps of the homes we passed were full of their happy 
inmates; glad voices could be constantly heard, and merry 
shouts of laughter came from the throngs of little children 
playing everywhere upon the flowery lawns. Once I broke 
our silence by saying to my brother: 
"I have been more than once delightfully surprised to 
hear the familiar songs of earth reproduced in heaven, but 
never more so than I was to-day. That hymn has long been 
a favorite of mine." 
"These happy surprises do not come by chance," he 
answered. "One of the delights of this rare life is that no 
occasion is ever overlooked for reproducing here the pure 
enjoyments of our mortal life. It is the Father's pleasure to 
make us realize that this existence is but a continuance of 
the former life, only without its imperfections and its 
"Frank, I believe you are the only one of our friends here 
who has never questioned me about the dear ones left 
behind; why is it?" 
He smiled a peculiarly happy smile as he answered: 
"Perhaps it is because I already know more than you could 
tell me.') 
"I wondered if it was not so," I said, for I remembered well 
how my dear father had said, in speaking of my brother upon 
the first day of my coming, "He stands very near to
the Master," and I knew how often he was sent upon 
missions to the world below. 
I lay down upon my couch, on our return, with a heart 
overflowing with joy and gratitude and love, beyond the 
power of expression; and it seemed to me the tenderness in 
the Divine eyes that looked down upon me from the wall 
was deeper, Purer, holier than it  ever been before. 
"I will reach the standard of perfection you have set for 
me, my Savior," I faltered, with clasped bands uplifted to 
him, "if it takes all my life in heaven and all the help from 
all the angels of light to accomplish it;" and with these 
words upon my lips, and his tender eyes resting upon me, I 
sank into the blissful repose of heaven.
I shall know the loved who have gone before, 
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 
The Angel of Death shall carry me. 
—[Nancy A. W. Priest. 
SO much occurred, and so rapidly, from the very hour of 
my entrance within the beautiful gates, that it is impossible 
for me to transcribe it all. I have been able only to cull here 
and there incidents that happened day by day; and in so 
doing many things I would gladly have related have 
unconsciously been omitted. Of the many dear friends I 
met, only a very few have been mentioned, for the reason 
that, of necessity, such meetings are so similar in many 
respects that the constant repetition, in detail, would 
become wearisome. I have aimed principally to give such 
incidents as would show the beautiful domestic life in that 
happy world; to make apparent the reverence and love all 
hearts feel toward the blessed Trinity for every good and 
perfect gift, and to show forth the marvelous power of the 
Christ-love even in the life beyond the grave. 
This world, strange and new to me, held multitudes of 
those I  loved in the years gone by, and there was scarcely 
an hour that did not renew for me the ties that once were 
severed in the mortal life. I remember that as I was walking 
one day in the neighborhood of Mrs. Wickham's home, 
shortly after my first memorable visit there, I was attracted 
by an unpretentious but very beautiful house, almost hidden 
by luxuriant climbing rose vines, whose flowers of creamy 
whiteness were beyond compare with any roses I had yet 
seen in earth or heaven. Meeting Mrs. Wickham, I pointed 
to the house and asked: "Who lives there?" 
"Suppose you go over and see," she said. 
"Is it any one I know?" I asked. 
"I fancy so. See, someone is even now at the door as 
though expecting you." 
I crossed over the snowy walk and flowery turf—for the 
house stood in an angle formed by two paths crossing, 
almost opposite Mrs. Wickham's and before I could ascend 
the steps I found myself in the embrace of two loving arms. 
"Bertha Sprague! was sure it was you when I saw you go 
to Mrs. Wickham's a day or two ago. Did not she tell you I 
was here?" 
"She had no opportunity until to-day," I said. "But dear 
Aunt Ann, I should have found you soon; I am sure you 
know that." 
"Yes, I am sure you would." 
Then I recounted to her something of my visit to Mrs. 
Wickham's that eventful day. She listened with her dear 
face full of sympathy, then said: 
"There, dear, you need not tell me. Do I not know? 
When the Master comes to gladden my eyes, I have no 
thought or care for anything beyond, for days and days!
Oh, the joy, the peace of knowing I am safe in this 
blessed haven! How far beyond all our earthly dreams is 
this divine life!" 
She sat for a moment lost in thought, then said wistfully: 
"Now, tell me of my children—are they coming?" 
I gladdened her heart with all the cheering news I could 
bring of her loved ones; and so we talked the hours away, 
recalling many sweet memories of the earth-life, of friends 
and home and family ties, and looking forward to the future 
coming to us of those whom even the joys of heaven could 
not banish from our hearts. 
Then also another evening, as the soft twilight fell, and 
many of our dear home circle were gathered with us in the 
great "flower-room," we heard a step upon the veranda, and 
as my brother went to the open door a gentle voice said: 
"Is Mrs. Sprague really here?" 
"She is really here. Come and see for yourself." And 
sweet Mary Green entered the room. 
"I am so glad to welcome you home!" she said, coming 
to me with extended bands, and looking into mine with her 
tender, earnest eyes. 
"My precious girt!" I cried, taking her to my heart in a 
warm embrace. "I have been asking about you, and longing 
to see you." 
"I could scarcely wait to reach here when I heard that 
you had come. Now, tell me everything—everything!" she 
said as I drew her to a seat close beside me.
But questions asked and the answers given are too sacred 
for rehearsal here. Every individual member of her dear 
home-circle was discussed, and many were the incidents 
she recounted to me that had occurred in her presence when 
her mother and I were together and talking of the dear child 
we considered far removed from our presence. 
"I was often so close that I could have touched you with 
my hand, had the needed power been given," she said. 
After a long, close converse had been held between us, I 
took her to the library, whither the rest had gone to examine 
a new book just that day received. I introduced her to them 
all as the daughter of dear friends still on earth, confident of 
the welcome she would receive. My youngest sister and she 
at once became interested in each other, finding 
congeniality in many of their daily pursuits, and I was glad 
to believe they would henceforth see much of each other in 
many different ways. 
There was no measurement of time as we measure it 
here, although many still spoke in the old-time language of 
"months" and "days" and "years." I have no way of 
describing it as it seemed to me then. There were periods, 
and allotted times; there were hours for happy duties, hours 
for joyful pleasures, and hours for holy praise. I only know 
it was all harmony, all joy, all peace, at all times and in all 
'There is an endearing tenderness in the love of a mother to a 
son, that transcends; all other affections of the heart. It is neither 
to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor 
weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will 
sacrifice every comfort to his convenience" she will surrender 
every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and 
exult in his prosperity; and if adversity overtake him. He will be 
the dearer to her by misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his 
name, she will still love and cherish him; and if all the world 
beside cast him off, she will be all the world to 
him—[Washington Irving. 
THE current of my life flowed on in the heavenly ways, 
until the months began to lengthen into years and my daily 
studies ascended higher in the scale of celestial mysteries. I 
never wearied of study, though much was taught and 
gained through the medium of observation in the journeys 
that I was Permitted to take with my brother into different 
parts of the heavenly kingdom. I never lacked time for 
social pleasures and enjoyments, for there is no clashing of 
duties with inclination, no unfulfilled desires, no vain 
strivings for the unattainable in that life, as in the life of 
earth. Many precious hours of intercourse were spent in my 
dear father's home, and sometimes on rare occasions I was 
permitted to accompany him to his field of labor and assist 
him in instructing those lately come into the new life with 
little or no preparation for its duties and responsibilities. On 
one occasion he said to me: 
"I have the most difficult problem to deal with I have 
ever yet met in this work. It is how to enlighten and help a 
man who suddenly plunged from an apparently honorable 
life into the very depths of crime. I have never been able to 
get him to accompany me to the river, where these earthly 
cobwebs would be swept from his poor brain; his excuse 
being always that God's mercy is so great in allowing him 
inside heaven's gates at all, that he is content to remain 
always in its lowest scale of enjoyment and life. No 
argument or teaching thus far can make him alter his 
decision. He was led astray by infatuation for a strange 
woman, and killed his aged mother in order to secure her 
jewels for this wretched creature. He was executed for the 
crime, of which in the end he sincerely repented, but he left 
life with all the horror of the deed clinging to his soul." 
"Has he seen his mother since coming here? Does she 
know of his arrival?" 
"No; she is entirely alone in this world, and it was not 
thought wise to tell her of his coming till his soul was in a 
better condition to receive her. He was an only child, and 
does not lack the elements of refinement, but he was 
completely under the control of this vile though fascinating 
woman. It is said she drugged his wine and incited him to 
do the dreadful deed while under its influence, because of 
her hatred for his mother, whose influence was against her. 
When he came from under the influence of the wine, he 
was horrified at what he had done, and his infatuation for
the woman turned to loathing—but, alas, too late! He 
would not see her during his entire incarceration." 
"How long was he in prison?" 
"Almost a year." 

"Has he seen the Christ?" 
"No; he begs not to see him. He is very repentant, and 
grateful to be saved from the wrath he feels was his just 
punishment, but though he is conscious that his sin is 
forgiven, he does not yet feel that he can ever stand In the 
presence of the Holy One. And here, as upon earth, each 
must be willing to receive him. His presence is never given 
undesired. I have not yet appealed for higher help; my 
ambition is to lead these weak souls upward through the 
strength entrusted to me. Can you suggest anything that 
would probably reach him?" 
"His mother. May I bring her?" 
He thought a moment reflectively, then said: "A woman's 
intuition. Yes, bring her." 
I soon was on my way. I found the poor woman, laid the 
facts gently before her, and waited her decision. There was 
no hesitancy upon her part; in an instant she said, "My poor 
boy! Certainly I will go with you at once." 
We found my father waiting for us, and went 
immediately to the great "Home" where these 
"students"—would we call them?—stayed. It was a 
beautiful great building in the midst of a park, with shaded 
walks and fountains and flowers everywhere. To one just 

freed from earth it seemed

a paradise indeed; but to those of us who had tasted 
heaven's rarer joys, something was wanting. We missed the 
lovely individual homes, the little children playing on the 
lawns, the music of the angel choir; it was tame indeed 
beside the pleasures we had tasted. 
We found the young man seated beneath one of the 
flower-laden trees, intently perusing a book that my father 
had left with him. There was a peaceful look on his pale 
face, but it was rather the look of patient resignation than of 
ardent joy. Ills mother approached him alone; my father 
and I remaining in the background. After a little time he 
glanced. up and saw his mother standing near him. A 
startled look came into his face, and he rose to his feet. She 
extended her arms toward him, and cried out pathetically, 
"John, my dear boy, come home to me—I need you!" That 
was all. 
With a low cry he knelt at her feet and clasped her knees, 
sobbing: "Mother! mother!" 
She stooped and put her tender arms about him; she drew 
his head gently to her breast and showered kisses on his 
bowed head. Oh, the warm mother-love, the same in earth 
and heaven! Only the Christ-love can exceed it. Here was 
this outraged mother, sent into eternity by the hands of him 
who should have shielded and sustained her, bending above 
her repentant son with the mother-love with which her 
heart was overflowing shining upon him from her gentle 
eyes, I saw my father turn his head to conceal his emotion,
and I knew that my own eyes were wet. My father had 
explained to the mother that the first thing to be 
accomplished was to get her son to the river, so we now 
heard her say caressingly: 
"Come, John, my boy, take the first step upward, for your 
mother's sake, that in time I may have the joy of seeing you 
in our own home. Come, John, with mother." 
She gently drew him, and to our great joy we saw him 
rise and go with her, and their steps led them to the river. 
They walked hand in hand, and as far as we could see them 
she seemed to be soothing and comforting him. 
"Thank God!" said my father fervently. "There will be no 
further trouble now. When they return he will see with 
clearer vision." And so it proved. 
After this, by divine permission, I became much of the 
time a co-laborer with my father, and thus enjoyed his 
society and his instructions much oftener than otherwise I 
could have done.
Some day," we say, and turn our eyes 
Toward the fair hills of Paradise; 
Some day, some time, a sweet new rest 
Shall blossom, flower-like, in each breast. 
Some day. some time, our eyes shall see 
The faces kept in memory: 
Some day their hard shall clasp our hand, 
Just over in the Morning-land—‚ 
O Morning-land! O Morning-land! 
—[Edward R. Phelps. 
ONE evening, some three years—counted by the calendar 
of earth—after I had entered upon the joys and duties of the 
heavenly life, I sat resting upon the upper veranda of our 
home, after a somewhat arduous journey to a distant city of 
the heavenly realm. From this part of the veranda we 
caught rare glimpses of the river through the overhanging 
branches of the trees; and just below us, at a little distance, 
we could see the happy children at their play upon the 
lawn. Here my brother sought me out, and throwing 
himself upon a soft veranda lounge near, lay for a time 
motionless and silent. He looked as wearied as one can ever 
look in that life, but I felt no anxiety about him, for I knew 
the rest was sure. He had been absent on some 

earth-mission much of the time for many days, and I knew 
from experience that some of the fatigue and care of earth 
will cling to its on such occasions, till we are restored by 
heaven's balmy air and life-giving waters. He had not told 
me, as he sometimes did, where his mission had led him, 
and I had not asked him, feeling sure that all it was best I 
should know would be imparted. My own duties had of late 
been unusually responsible, leading me daily to a distant 
part of the heavenly kingdom, hence I myself had not 
visited the beloved of earth for a much longer period than 
usually elapsed between my visits. When last seen, all of 
the dear ones had seemed in such vigorous health and were 
so surrounded by earthly blessings that I had ceased to feel 
they needed my ministrations as in the early days of their 
sorrow, hence I had thrown all of my energies into the work 
assigned me by the Master. 

At length, after a time of rest, my brother arose to a 
sitting posture, and regarding me for a moment in silence, 
said gently: "I have news for you, little sister." 
A thrill like an electric shock passed through me, and in 
an instant I cried out Joyously: "He is coming!" 
He nodded his head, with a sympathetic smile, but did 
not at once reply. 
"When will it be? Am I to go to him?" I asked. 
He hesitated an instant before saying: "Of course you are 
permitted to go, if your heart will not be denied." 
"Oh, I must go to him! I must be the first to greet him! 
Perhaps it may be granted him to see me even while he is 
yet in the flesh." 
He shook his head sadly at this, and said, "No, dear; he 

will not know you."

"Why? Frank, tell me all—and why you think, as I 
plainly see you do, that it is not best I should go." 
"He was stricken suddenly in the midst of his work, 
while apparently in perfect health, and has not regained 
consciousness since; nor will he ever on earth. Hence your 
presence could be no solace to him." 
"When was this?" 
"Three days ago; I have been with him almost constantly 
by day and night ever since." 
"Oh, why did you not sooner tell me?" 
"It was thought wise to spare you the unnecessary pain 
of seeing him suffer when you could not minister to him, 
and I have come to tell you now that you may go if you still 
so desire." 
"He will know me as soon as the struggle is past?" 
"Yes, but he will be bewildered and weak; he will need 
stronger help and guidance than you alone can give, and 
you will miss the rapture of the meeting as it would he a 
little later on." 
"What would you have me do? You know I will yield to 
your wiser judgment even against the pleadings of my 
heart. But I can wait!" 
"I will not say, 'do not go.' You shall accompany me if you 
wish. I only think that after the first bewilderment of the change 
has passed, after he has bathed in the waters of the River of 
Life, he will be better prepared for the delightful reunion which 
awaits him. You remember what the
waters did for you, and how bewildered and oppressed in 
spirit you were till you went with me that morning, into the 
river. It is the same with all of us, only where there has 
been serious trouble with the brain at last, it is even more 
needed than on ordinary occasions. And that is the case 
with my brother; he will not be fully himself until the 
magical waters have swept the clouds from his brain." 
"You are always right, my brother, and I will yield to 
your wise advice, although my heart cries out to hasten at 
once to his side. When will you return to him?" 
"Immediately. There will be little time to wait. With the 
quickening of the morning light we will be here. My 
brave-hearted, wise little sister, the delay will be to you 
neither sorrowful nor long." 
He arose, and, bending over me, dropped a kiss lightly on 
my brow, and in a moment he had passed from my sight. 
"How strange," I thought, "that even in this matter, so 
near to my heart, I am able to yield unmurmuringly! Father, 
I thank Thee! I thank Thee for the glad reunion so near at 
hand; but, even more than that, for the sweet submission in 
all things that has grown into my life; that I can yield to 
Thy will even when Thou wouldst permit it to be 
I bowed my head upon my hand and gave myself up to 
mingled sad and happy thoughts. Was he, this dearly loved 
one, indeed insensible to his suffering? Would the Father 
mercifully spare him even the pang of the parting? Oh, that
the morning were here! How could I wait even that brief 
while for the sight of the beloved face! 
Suddenly a soft touch rested upon my bowed head, and a 
Voice I had learned to recognize and love beyond all things 
in earth or heaven said: "Have I not said truly Though he 
were dead, yet shall he live again"? What are now the years 
of separation, since the meeting again is at hand? Come, 
and let us reason a little together," the Master said, smiling 
down into my uplifted face. He took my extended hand into 
his own, and sitting down beside me, continued: 
"Let us consider what these years have done for you. Do 
you not feel that you are infinitely better prepared to confer 
happiness than when you parted from him you love?" 
I nodded in glad affirmation. 
"Do you not realize that you stand upon a higher plane, 
with more exalted ideas of life and its duties: and that, in 
the strength of the Father, you two henceforward will walk 
upward together?" 
Again I gladly acquiesced. 
"Is the home-life here less attractive than it was in the 
"No, no! A thousand times no!" I cried. 

"Then there is nothing but joy in the reunion at hand?" 
"Nothing but joy" I echoed. 
Then the Savior led me on to talk of the one so soon to 
come, and I opened my glad heart to him and told him of the 

noble life, the unselfish toil, the high aspirations, the unfaltering

trust of him I loved. I spoke of his fortitude in misfortune, 
his courage in the face of sore trial and disappointment, his 
forgiveness of even malicious injury; and concluded by 
saying, "He lived the Christianity many others professed. 
He always distanced me in that." 
The face of the Master glowed in sympathy as I talked, 
and when I ceased he said: "I perceive that you have 
discovered the secret which makes marriage eternal as the 
years of heaven." 
"Oh," I said, "to me marriage must be eternal! How could 
it be otherwise when two grow together and become as 
one? Death cannot separate them without destroying; the), 
are no longer two perfect beings, but one in soul and spirit 
"Aye," he answered; "but having the marriage rite 
pronounced does not produce this change. It is the divinity 
of soul wedded to soul alone that can do it." 
So he led me on until my soul flew upward as a lark in 
the early morning. He unfolded to me mysteries of the soul- 
life that filled my heart with rapture, but which I may not 
here reveal. At length, to my infinite Surprise, I saw the 
rosy glow deepening across the sky, and knew that 
morning—love's morning—had dawned for me in heaven. 
The Master arose, and pointing to the radiance, said: "By 
the time thou art ready to receive them they will be here;" 
and with a smile, and a touch that made a benediction, be 
As I arose and stood with face uplifted to the coming day, 
I caught in the near distance the triumphant notes of the 
angels' choral song; and this morning, as though in 
sympathy with my thought, they sang: 
"He is risen! Hear it, ye heavens, and ye sons of earth! He 
is risen, and has become the first fruits of them that slept!" 
I lifted up my voice with joy, and joined their thrilling 
song; and as they swept onward and the cadence died away, 
I slowly descended the stairway, crossed the lawn whose 
flowers never crushed or withered beneath our feet, and 
sank for a moment beneath the pure waters of the river. I 
felt no haste, no unwonted excitement or unrest, though I 
knew that he was coming for whom my soul had waited all 
these years. The Master's presence had filled me with calm 
and peace that nothing had power to disturb; had prepared 
and fitted me for the great happiness lying just before me. 
Uplifted with a new, strange delight, I recrossed the lawn, 
stopping upon the veranda before entering the house, to 
gather a knot of cream-white roses and fasten them to my 
breast. Then going to the library, I refilled the golden bowl 
with the spicy-breathed scarlet Carnations, laying one aside 
to fasten upon my husband's shoulder. I wanted to myself 
gather the flowers that would greet him on his coming. I 
twisted up my hair in the manner that he had most admired, 
and fastened a creamy bud within the folds, that I might 
seem to him as I had of old.
Soon thereafter I heard voices and steps. Listen! Yes, it 
is the same dear step for which I had so often listened in the 
old home-life, the step that had always brought gladness to 
my heart, and sunshine in our home! His step in heaven! I 
flew to the open doorway, and in an instant was held close 
in the strong arms and to the loving, throbbing heart of my 
dear husband. Was there anything more for me that heaven 
could give! 
My brother, with thoughtful care, passed onward to the 
upper rooms of the house, and for awhile we were alone 
together, we whose lives had run, so happily mingled, 
through the long years of our mortal life. I drew him within 
the house, and in the vestibule again he took me in his arms 
and drew me to his heart. 
"This is heaven indeed!" he said. 
We passed into the "flower-room," and on its threshold 
he stood a moment, entranced with its beauty; but when I 
would have related to him its history, as my brother had 
given it to me, he said: "Not to-day, my dear; I have only 
eyes and ears for you to-day; all else in heaven must wait." 
So we sat and talked together as in the olden days, and the 
happy hours came and went, and the day melted into the 
twilight glow, before we realized it was half spent. Our brother 
Frank had come to us about the noontide, and together we had 
gone over the lovely house, had stood upon the broad verandas 
and eaten of the heavenly fruit. Then we all sat together where I 
had spent the hours waiting in
the presence of the blessed Master. I told them much that 
he then had said to me, and how he turned into triumphant 
rejoicing the hours which I had anticipated would pass in 
lonely waiting. The eyes of my dear husband were 
tear-filled, and he pressed my hand, which he still kept in 
his, in tender sympathy. 
"Oh, darling, it is a blessed, blessed life!" I said. 
"I already realize the blessedness," he replied, "for has it 
not given me back my brother and my wife—my precious 

Early the following morning I said to my husband and 
our brother: "We must go to father and mother Sprague's 
today. They have the first claim, after ours, Frank." 
"Yes, we will go at once," they both replied. 
So together we all started. In the earliest days of my 
heavenly life I had sought out with much Joy the home of 
my husband's parents, and was by them accorded, as in the 
earth-life, a warm place in their hearts, and many happy 
hours had we spent together since. Now we were taking to 
them a favorite son, and I realized how his coming would 
bring gladness to their hearts and home. It was a joyful 
meeting, especially to our mother, and the day was far 
spent before we arose to return. 
"William," said our mother, fondly laying her hand upon 
his arm, "yours was a happy home on earth—I used to 
think a perfect home; it will be far happier here," with a 

loving glance at me.

"I am sure of that, mother. I have my dear wife and 
Frank constantly with me; and you and my father and 
Josephine"—a favorite niece—"to come to here; and after 
awhile," with a little hesitation, "the holier Joys and 
privileges of heaven." 
We turned to go, and upon the threshold met an aunt who 
in the earth-life—blind and helpless—had been a favorite 
with us all. 
"My dear children," she exclaimed, "how good it seems 
to see you all again!" 
"Aunt Cynthia!" my husband said fondly. 
"Yes, Aunt Cynthia, but no longer groping helpless in 
the darkness. 'Whereas I once was blind, now I see,'" she 
quoted, smiling happily. 
And so it was—the Master's touch had rested on the 
sightless eyes, and, closing to the darkness of earth, they 
had opened upon the glories of heaven. Marvelous 
transition! No wonder we left her singing: 
Glory to Him who this marvel hath wrought, 
Filling my spirit with joy and delight! 
Lo, in my blindness I safely have walked 

Out of the darkness into the light!
Down by the sea, the crystal sea, 
Where all of the redeemed shall be, 
Where you and I, beloved, shall go, 
Our crimson robes washed white as snow 
In Christ's dear blood—what hymns of praise 
Thro' countless ages we shall raise! 
There all our loved ones we shall:see— 
Think what a meeting that will be 
Down by the sea! 
—[From "Songs by the Sea." 
DAYS lengthened into weeks, and weeks into months, and 
these in turn crept onward into years, and the duties and 
joys of heaven grew clearer and dearer with each passing 
hour. Our home-life was perfect, though we looked forward 
with joy to the future coming of our son and daughter to 
make its ties complete. We had often spoken of going 
together to the great celestial sea, but the time had never 
seemed quite ripe for so doing. We realized it, was one of 
the great mysteries of heaven, although we knew not just 
what to expect, since there no one ever seeks to forestall 
sight by description. One evening I said to my brother: 
"I have a strange desire to go to the sea, if you think it 
wise that we should do so." 
"I am glad that it is your desire to go, as it is mine to 
have you. I was about to propose that you and my brother 
should take together this blessed journey." 
"Will you not accompany us?" 
"Not at this time. We will all take it again together, but it 
is best that now you two should go atone. You know the 
way. Through the forest that leads to the Temple, till almost 
there; then bear to the right and follow the golden path that 
takes you direct to the shore." 
So, in the quivering light of the glorious morning we 
started, full of a holy joy that together we might take this 
special journey. We entered and traversed the great forest, 
where the golden light fell through the quivering branches 
overhead, and birds of gorgeous plumage and thrilling song 
were darting everywhere. We heard, nearer and ever nearer, 
the regular dashing of the waves against the shore; and now 
there came to us bursts of triumphant song and the harmony 
of many instruments of music. At length we emerged from 
the forest, and stood mute and motionless before the 
overwhelming glory of the scene before us. 
Can I describe it as it appeared to me that day? Never, 
until my lips can speak, and your heart understand, the 
language of the royal courts above. From our very feet 
sloped downward toward the shore a golden strand many 
hundred feet wide, and extending on either hand far beyond 
the limits of our vision. This strand caught and radiated the 
morning light until wherever it was visible it glittered and 
glimmered like the dust of diamonds and other precious 
stones, and the waves, as they came and went in ceaseless 
motion, caught up this sparking sand and carried it on their
crests, like the phosphorescence we sometimes see in the 
wake of a vessel in mid-ocean. And the sea! It spread out 
before us in a radiance that passes description in any 
language I have ever known. It was like the white glory that 
shone through the windows of the Temple, and beneath this 
shilling glory we caught in the roll of the waves the blue 
tint of the waters of that sea which has no limit to its depths 
or bounds. Upon its shining bosom we saw in every 
direction boats, representing all nations, but in beauty of 
construction far surpassing anything earth has ever known. 
They were like great open pleasure-barges, and were filled 
with people looking with eager faces toward the shore, 
many in their eagerness standing erect and gazing with 
wistful, expectant eyes into the faces of those upon the 
Ah, the people upon the shore! "Numberless as the sands 
of the sea," they stood, far as the eye could reach, far as 
stretched the shore of that illimitable sea, a great mass of 
beautiful souls clad in the spotless garments of the 
redeemed. Many among them had golden harps and various 
instruments of music, and whenever a boat touched the 
shore and its inmates were welcomed by the glad voices 
and tender embraces of their beloved ones In the throng, 
the harps would he held aloft, all of the golden instruments 
would sound, and the vast multitude would break forth into 
the triumphant song of victory over death and the grave. 
"Do these people stand here always, I wonder?" I said 
"Not the same people," said a radiant being near us, who 
had heard my question. "But there is always a throng of 
people here—those who are expecting friends from the 
other life, and those who assemble to share their joy. Some 
of the heavenly choristers also are always here, but not 
always the same ones. You will notice that most of those 
who arrive are led quietly away by their friends, and many 
others are constantly joining the multitude." 
He passed onward toward the shore, and left us rapt in 
awe and wonder. 
We soon became deeply interested in watching the 
reunions, and found ourselves joining with rapture in the 
glad songs of rejoicing. Now and then a face we 
remembered to have seen on earth would be among the 
eager faces in the boats, but none that had been especially 
dear to us; still it made us notice more closely and 
sympathize more heartily with those who welcomed 
beloved friends. Now we would see a wife caught in the 
close embrace of a waiting husband; now a little child with 
a glad cry would spring into the outstretched arms of the 
happy mother; friend would clasp friend in glad reunion, 
and here an aged mother would be folded to the heart of a 
beloved child. 
As one boat of more than usual strength and beauty came 
riding gracefully over the waves, we observed the tall figure of 
a man standing near her prow with his arms about a graceful 
woman who stood by his side. Each shaded with uplifted hand 
from their dazzled eyes the unwonted splendor
and scanned, wistfully and searchingly, the faces of the 
crowd as the boat neared the shore. Suddenly with a great 
thrill of joy surging through my being, I cried out: 
"It is our precious son, and his dear wife! And they have 
come together!" 
In an instant we were swiftly moving through the throng 
that parted in ready sympathy to let us pass. And, as the 
boat touched the shore, with a swift movement they were 
both beside us—the dear daughter already close clasped to 
the hearts of her own happy parents who were waiting near 
the water's edge, while at the same Instant we felt the arms 
of our beloved son enfolding us; and soon thereafter we 
were all in each other's embrace. Oh, what a rapturous 
moment was that! Our home life in heaven complete, no 
partings forever! As we stood with encircling arms, 
scarcely realizing the unexpected bliss, the heavenly choir 
broke into song; and with uplifted faces radiant with joy, 
eyes filled with happy tears and voices trembling with 
emotion, we all joined in the glad anthem: 
Glory be unto the Father, and unto the Son! 
Glory be unto the ever-blessed Three in One! 
No more sorrow, no more parting, no more grief or pain; 
Christ has broken death's strong fetters, we are free again: 
Heart to heart and hand to hand, 
Meet we on the golden strand. 
Glory, glory to the Father! Glory to the Son! 
Glory be unto the ever-blessed Three in One! 
Alleluia! Amen!
The song rose and swelled triumphantly as the vast 
multitude caught it up, and the surge of the waves made a 
deep undertone to the melody that increased its solemnity, 
as with bowed heads and full hearts we passed onward 
hand in hand; and the light that fell about us was purer, 
holier, more divine, than it had ever been before.
Can such things be, 
And overcome us like a summer's cloud, 
Without oar special wonder: 
A TIME came when one day as I stood in my lovely room 
that had really become to me a shrine, and looked up into 
the pictured face of the Christ above me, I fancied that the 
tender eyes looking down into mine no longer told of a 
deathless love alone, but carried in their depths a pity, a 
loving compassion which I had never noticed there before. 
Then as I turned toward my couch I even fancied that his 
hands reached out from the canvas and rested in 
benediction on my head. I stood a moment in blessed peace 
before him, then as the hands seemed to be withdrawn, I 
turned and lay down for an Instant's rest. But strange 
thoughts and fancies crept into my brain, such as I had not 
known in years. I felt confused and bewildered, and started 
up restlessly from my pillow, only to fall back again in 
doubt, and something akin to dread. What could it mean? 
Could the old unrest of earth find place in this divine 
retreat? Then I heard unfamiliar voices. Someone said: 
Her Color is better than it has been for several days, I 
"Yes, there is no doubt but she is better to-day. There is 
really hope for her now, I am sure. But she came very near 
passing through the Gates." 
"Very near passing through the Gates"! As though I had 
not passed through, and in returning left them so ajar that 
gleams of the heavenly radiance from beyond them will fall 
about my life forever! 
I have been in my Father's house. 
*"We shall know each other there!" 
*See the verse at the top of page 7. (This verse, by Mr. Lowry, 
asks a question. The entire book is a working-out of the reply. 
The last line, page 150, sums it up and refers back to the 
The given names of all the persons spoken of are their correct 
names, they being real persons; the family names. to avoid 
embarrassment, have been slightly altered by the author.
IN the many letters received since the publication of "Intra 
Muros," repeated inquiries have been made of me on 
different points contained in the book, requiring much 
correspondence, and it has been suggested that possibly the 
addition of a few pages, as a supplement to the book, might 
explain some matters, or, possibly, make more cleat some 
points that have not been fully comprehended by the reader. 
Let me in the beginning reassert what I have heretofore 
stated: that I have never claimed that this strange 
experience is either a revelation or an inspiration. It came 
to me during a period of great physical suffering and 
prostration, and I have always considered it as sent in 
compensation for that suffering. Be this as it may, it has 
been a great comfort and help to me, and, through the 
letters received from others, I am led to believe it has been 
the same to many who have read it, for which cause I am 
extremely gratified. I wish that I might give the entire 
experience just as it came to me, but I find that 
earth-language is wholly inadequate for me to do so. There 
were so many mysteries, so many teachings far beyond 
anything that in this life we have known, that I find myself 
bewildered and lost when I attempt to convey to 
others the marvelous things that at that time seemed indeed 
to me to be a most wonderful revelation. 
The question has repeatedly been asked me, "Was this a 
real experience, or merely a fanciful sketch?" What I have 
written above will as nearly answer that question as it is 
possible for me to do. The preface and early pages as given 
in the little volume are as nearly accurate as I can make 
them; and anything that I might add on that point would 
simply be superfluous. To me, at the time, it was as real as 
any experience in this life could possibly be. 
Questions have been asked respecting the comparative 
distances in heaven and our powers of passing from one point 
to another; and the question has even been asked if in the 
other life we developed wings that aided us in passage, as the 
wings of a bird. These matter-of-fact questions are sometimes 
quite difficult to answer, for my belief is, that if I were really 
in the other life, as during this experience I seemed to be, my 
thoughts would be so far above, so lifted beyond such 
temporal matters, that I would be unable to answer such 
inquiries satisfactorily on my return to this life. Looking back 
upon it now, and trying to gather facts from the impressions 
that I then received, I should say that none who have ever 
passed through mortal life would in any way be changed from 
their present personal appearance, except to be etherealized 
and glorified. When I seemed to stand in that wonderful 
Temple filled with the Glory of God the Father, four angels 
with uplifted trumpets stood
beside the golden altar on the great platform of pearl, and 
from their shoulders shadowy pinions enfolded them and 
touched the floor upon which they stood. And when, in a 
moment of bewildering emotion, I lifted my eyes to the 
erstwhile cloud-filled dome, I saw about the hitherto 
invisible choir, the shadowy pinions of which we so often 
read, half concealing the harps and instruments of gold. 
Also, when at the close of that wonderful day when I had 
first met the Savior, we heard the angel voices as we stood 
together in the great flower-room, and, looking upward, 
saw the child faces in the golden twilight above us, they, 
too, had delicate shadowy wings, half concealing the baby 
forms. Except for this, I have no recollection of having seen 
any of those glorious wings of which we so often read. 
To me it seems that to the angels of God who have 
always lived in heaven, these are given; but to these who 
have suffered and toiled and borne the cross below, is given 
only the glorified form, such as our Savior himself bore. 
We appear to our friends when we meet them ever there 
Just as they saw us here, only purified and perfect. Still, we 
had powers of locomotion given us that carried us from 
point to point swiftly and securely, as though borne by a 
boat upon the waters. 
I do not know how I can better illustrate this point than by 
giving a little incident not mentioned in the book. I remember, 
as I sat one morning upon the tipper terrace in the house of my 
sister whom I had welcomed there soon after
my arrival, and who, though really then a denizen of earth, 
has since passed over and taken possession of that beautiful 
home prepared for her, that my sister said to me: 
"I often look across the river to those lovely hills in the 
distance, and wonder if it is all as beautiful there as here. I 

mean some day to go and see." 
"Why not go to-day?" was my answer. 
"Could you go with me this morning?" was her inquiry, 
as she turned her radiant face again toward the river and the 
lovely fields beyond. 
"With pleasure," I replied. "I have often wished to go 
myself. There is something very inviting in the beautiful 
landscape beyond the river. Where is my brother Oliver?" I 
asked; "will he not accompany us?" 
"No," she said, looking smilingly toward me, "he has 
gone upon an important mission for the Master to-day; but 
you and I, dear, can go, and be at home again before his 
"Then let us do so," I replied, rising and giving her my 
She at once arose, and, instead of turning toward the 
stairway in the center of the building, we turned and walked 
deliberately to the low coping that surrounded the upper 
veranda. Without a moment's hesitation we stepped over this 
into the sweet air that lay about us. There was no more fear of 
falling than if our feet had been upon the solid earth. We had 

the power of passing through the air at will, and through

the water, just as we  the power of walking upon the crystal 
paths and greensward about us. 
We ascended slightly until we were just above the 
treetops, and then—what shall I say?—we did not fly, we 
made no effort either with our hands or our feet; I can only 
think of the word "drifting" that will at all describe this 
wonderful experience. We went as a leaf or a feather floats 
through the air on a balmy day, and the sensation was most 
delightful. We saw beneath us through the green branches 
of the trees the little children playing, and the people 
walking—some for pleasure, some for duty. As we neared 
the river we looked down on the pleasure-boats upon the 
water and upon the people sitting or lying or walking on the 
pebbly bottom; and we saw them with the same distinctness 
as though we were looking at them simply through the 
Conversing as we drifted onward, we soon were over the 
tops of the bills to which we had looked so longingly from 
the veranda of my sister's house, and, for some time, we 
had no words to exchange; our hearts were filled with 
sensations such as only the scenes of heaven can give. Then 
my sister said very softly, quoting from one of the old 
"Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
Stand dressed in living green." 
And, in the same spirit, I answered, "It is indeed a 

rapturous scene
"'That rises to our sight, 
Sweet fields arrayed in living green, and rivers of 
As we passed onward, in looking down we began to see 
many suburban villages, similar to that in which our own 
happy homes were situated. Among many of them there 
was an unfamiliar air, and the architecture of the buildings 
in many respects seemed quite different from our own. I 
suggested to my sister that we drop downward a little. On 
doing so, we soon realized what caused this apparent 
difference in the architecture and surroundings. Where our 
homes were situated we were surrounded by people we had 
known and loved on earth, and of our own nationality. 
Many of these villages over which we were now passing 
we found were formed from what, to us, would be termed 
of foreign nations, and each village retained some of the 
peculiarities of its earth-life, and these, to us, were naturally 
unfamiliar. We recognized again the wisdom and goodness 
of the Father in thus allowing friends of the same 
nationality to be located near each other in heaven, as on 
As we still drifted onward, in passing over an exquisitely 
beautiful valley, between low hills of the most enchanting 
verdure, we saw a group of people seated upon the ground 
in a semicircle. They seemed to be hundreds in number, 
and in their midst a man was standing who, apparently, was 
talking to them. Something familiar, and yet unfamiliar, in 
the scene attracted us, and I said, "Let us go nearer, and
hear, if possible, what he is saying, and see who these 
people are." 
Upon doing this we found the people to resemble in a 
great measure our own Indian tribes; their dress, in a 
manner corresponding to that worn upon earth, though so 
etherealized as to be surpassingly beautiful. But the dusky 
faces and the long black hair still remained. The faces, with 
intense interest depicted on each, were turned toward the 
man who, we could see, was talking to their, and, looking 
upon him, we saw at once that he belonged to the 
Anglo-Saxon race. In a whisper of surprise I said to my 
"Why, he is a missionary!" 
As so often seemed to me to happen in that experience, 
when a surprise or a difficulty presented itself, there was 
always some one near to answer and enlighten us. And so 
we found on this occasion that our instructor was beside us 
ready to answer any surprise or question that might be 
asked. He said at once: 
"Yes, you are right. This is a missionary who gave his 
life to what on earth were called the heathen. He spent 
many years in working for them and enlightening those 
who sat in darkness, with the result, as you see before you, 
or bringing hundreds into the kingdom of the Master. But, 
as you will naturally suppose, they have much to learn, and 
here he still gathers them about him, and day by day leads 

them higher and higher into the blessed life."
"Are there many such," I asked, "doing this work in this 
beautiful realm?" 
"Many hundreds," he said. "To these poor minds, 
unenlightened as they were when they first came, heaven is 
as beautiful and happy a place as it is to any who have 
ascended higher, simply because we can enjoy only in the 
capacity to which our souls can reach. There are none of us 
who have not much yet to learn of this wonderful country." 
In several instances, as we drifted across above the 
villages, we heard songs of praise arising from the temples, 
and from people collected in different ways. In many cases, 
to our surprise, the hymns and the words were those with 
which we had been familiar on earth, and, although sung in 
a strange tongue, we understood them all. That was another 
of the wonderful surprises of heaven. There was no 
language there that we could not understand. 
On, and on, and on, through wonderful scenes of beauty 
we passed, returning finally to our own homes by a 
different way from that by which we had gone forth, 
seeming to have made almost a circle in our pleasant 
journeyings. When I left my sister in her own home she 
whispered to me as she bade me good-by for the present: 
"It has been a day of such wonderful rest and pleasure 
that we must soon repeat it together." And I answered: 
"Yes, dear, we will." 
In several instances the subject of dual marriages has been 
introduced. More than once it has been suggested, "If a
man marrying in early life, and, being devotedly attached to 
the woman he has married, should unfortunately lose her, 
and after many years of solitary waiting find another 
congenial soul to whom his whole heart goes out and 
marriage is the result, and they have many years of wedded 
happiness together before she, too, is called, to whom will 
he belong in the other life?" 
In the many phases of the divine life that seemed to come 
to me in my vision, such thoughts as the above were never 
by any means suggested. Speaking from my own natural 
intuitions, I cannot but think that as soon as the Immortal 
part of us leaves the earthly tenement, it lays down forever, 
with that tenement, all thoughts that embarrassed or grieved 
or pained the spirit. In the homes of heaven there was 
perpetual love and joy and peace and happiness without 
measure. This one thing I know: In heaven are no 
conflicting ties; no questions that vex; no conditions that 
annoy; the whole heart springs up to do the will of the 
Father, and nothing less than that will suffice. 
In answer to the question in many instances proposed to 
me, as to whether I consider this experience as a revelation, 
I can only say, as heretofore, that I gave it as it came to me, 
and every one must draw his own inference concerning it. I 
can be the guide for no one. 
There are some seeming inconsistencies in the book, of 
which I myself am aware. Looking back upon it after nearly 
four years have passed, it seems to me to be more a series
of instructions such as we give little children here in a 
kindergarten. It does not purport to be a revelation of what 
has been or what will be, in the strict sense of the word, 
but, as I have already suggested, more as we would teach 
children in a kindergarten. I myself noticed, in transcribing 
this strange experience, the fact that the first lesson to be 
taught almost invariably came as an illustration; and, after 
my wonder and pleasure had taken in all that the picture 
itself would teach, then followed the revelation, or a 
general application of its meaning. For instance, that I may 
make my meaning more clear: When I myself first entered 
within the gates, I was shown the wonders of the celestial 
gardens and the magic of the beautiful river; then the 
meeting with the dear ones from whom I had been so long 
parted. And so I came to know the rapture of the 
disembodied spirit on its first entrance "Within the Walls." 
Afterwards followed the instruction or first lessons 
concerning this life into which I seemed to have entered, 
until, as I said, the first illustrations and the instructions 
formed for me but one perfect lesson. And when, as time 
passed, I met and welcomed my dear sister, my husband 
and my son, I knew the other side of the question—the joy 
that came even to the angels in heaven when they 
welcomed the beloved ones who came to them from the 
world below. And so, all through the book, the instruction 
was invariably preceded by the illustration. Thus I can but 
think, if any meaning can be attached to this strange vision, 

that it is simply a lesson in a
general way of what we may expect and hope for when we 
reach the thither shore. 
Again, the question is many times repeated, "Does this 
experience retain its vividness as time passes, or does it 
grow unreal and dreamlike to you?" I can partially forget 
some of the happiest experiences of my earth-life, but time 
seems only to intensify to me the wonders of those days 
when my feet really stood upon the border-land of the two 
worlds. It seemed to me that at every step we took in the 

Again, the question is many times repeated, "Does this 
experience retain its vividness as time passes, or does it 
grow unreal and dreamlike to you?" I can partially forget 
some of the happiest experiences of my earth-life, but time 
seems only to intensify to me the wonders of those days 
when my feet really stood upon the border-land of the two 
worlds. It seemed to me that at every step we took in the 
divine life our souls reached up toward something better, 
and we had no inclination to look behind to that which had 
passed, or to try to solve what in our mortal life had been 
intricate or perplexing questions or mysteries. Like the cup 
that is filled to overflowing at the fountain with pure and 
sparkling water, so our souls were filled—more than 
filled—with draughts from the fountain of all good, until 
there was no longer room for aught else. "How then," you 
ask, "could you reach out for more, when you had all that 
you could receive?" Because moment by moment, hour by 
hour, our souls grew and expanded and opened to receive 
fresh draughts of divine instruction which was constantly 
lifting us nearer to the source of all perfection. 
Some of the letters that have come to me have been so 
pathetic in their inquiries, that they have called forth 
sympathetic tears, and an intense longing to speak with 
authority upon the questions raised. That privilege God has not 

given me. I can only tell how it seemed to me in those blissful

hours when earth seemed remote and heaven very near and 
real. One suffering mother writes, "Do you think I could 
pray still for my darling girl?" How I longed to take her in 
sympathetic arms and whisper to her that the dear child of 
her love, I doubted not, was praising God continually and 
had no longer need of earthly prayer. She loved and trusted 
the Savior as she went down into the Valley of Shadows, 
and his loving arms received and comforted her. To all 
such I would say—and many are the letters of like import 
"Look up, dear friends, and see the loved ones, as I saw 
those so dear to me, happy and blessed beyond all human 
conception in the house of many mansions prepared for us 
by our loving Father." Oh, those wonderful mansions upon 
which my longing heart looks back! Believe in them, look 
forward to them, beloved friends, for we have the Savior's 
promise that they at least are there: "In my Father's house 
are many mansions." His promises never fail; and I am sure 
of one thing they will not be less beautiful than those I 
looked upon in my vision. 
This thought, to me, answers in a measure the questions 
asked in regard to dual marriages. My own belief, of this 
mortal life, is, that no two friends can occupy the same 
place in our hearts. Each heart is filled with chambers 
stately and old, and to each beloved guest is assigned a 
chamber exclusively for himself. That room is always his. 
If death, or distance, or even disgrace, separates him from 
us, still the room is his and his only forever. No other 
person can ever
occupy it. Others may have rooms equally choice, but when 
a guest has once departed from the room he has held in 
another heart, the door of that room is barred forever; it is 
held inviolate—sacred to the departed guest. And so, in 
heaven, each guest has his separate room or home. "In my 
Father's house are many mansions. I go to prepare a place 
(room) for you." 
I am no advocate of second marriages. The thought of 
two lives alone as one, is beautiful to me; but I do not, all 
the same, believe that a man sins against the memory of a 
wife beloved and lost, when he places by her side (not in 
her place) a good woman to cheer and brighten his home. 
She cannot, if she would, take the place left vacant in his 
home and heart; it is inviolate. I speak, of course, of true 
marriages, where not only hands are joined, but hearts and 
souls are knit together as one forever. 
"What are the duties of heaven?" So many and varied, I 
should judge, as to make the question unanswerable. Much 
in "Intra Muros" shows the trend of daily life. 
"Rest?" One of the duties as well as the pleasures of 
heaven. Rest does not of necessity mean inactivity. How 
often in this life does laying aside of one duty and taking up 
another bring rest to both mind and body! Still, as I found 
it, there was at times absolute "rest" for both mind and 
body in that blissful repose that only heaven can give. 
In but one instance of the manifold letters received was 
any feeling produced in their perusal except that of pleasure
and gratitude that I—with so little physical strength of my 
own—could bring comfort and pleasure into the lives of 
others. I thank our gracious Father that he has so kindly 
permitted it. The one letter to which I refer contains so 
many almost puerile inquiries, that I simply laid it aside 
with a quotation from St. Paul, "Of the earth earthy," and 
asked the Father to lift the heart of the writer into a purer 
In conclusion I can only reiterate that I am no prophet, I 
am no seer; but, in my inmost soul, I honestly believe that 
if the joys of heaven are greater, if the glories "Within the 
Walls" are more radiant than I in my vision beheld them, I 
cannot understand how even the immortal spirit can bear to 
look upon them. R. R. S.
Jesus the Resurrection Now 
Or, Our Loved Ones Given Back to Us Here 
DIFFERENT people have different ideas of life beyond the 

grave, but there are few not interested in the matter. It is 
said that more than two thousand books have been written 
on this subject. Almost any book that tries to tell us about it 
finds ready purchasers. I suppose one reason for this is that 
people are apt to be more interested in what is coming next 
than they are in the present. Some have asked, "Why do we 
not know more about what is to be hereafter?" Perhaps it is 
best that much of it should be kept from us. I fear that if we 
knew all, we would lose interest in the present and so waste 
its opportunities. 
There is much diversity in the opinions of those who 
claim to have peered into the future. There is also great 
difference in the views expressed by people who have read 
and thought much about it. Some have the question all 
settled in their own minds, and I presume are quite happy in 
their convictions. 
The majority have vague and changing ideas—which 
perhaps is more fitting. Now I have little desire to talk to 
you directly on this question, but on one closely connected 
with it. If what I say shall help you to a life in this world 
such as will make joy possible even in the presence of 
death, I will rejoice with you. 
How can one think of joy when a loved one has been 
snatched away? You want your loved one back. A part of you 
has gone. The house is desolate. The heart is broken. Life is no 
longer the same. Perhaps you say that I cannot know anything 
about death. Yes, I do. Never shall I forget the first terrible 
sadness that came into my life as a child when my playmate 
sister was taken from me—how the wind moaned drearily 
through the oaks all that long October day—nor can I forget the 
loneliness which followed. Years later our baby boy went from 
us, and with him faded some of my fondest earthly dreams. The 
heavens in seeming sympathy dropped tears through all the 
long first night, as I looked upon the marble face and fingers. 
Neither shall I forget when my gray-haired father, the light of 
the home, closed his eyes to the scenes of earth. Connected 

with death is everything that is sad and gloomy. It is

the culmination of our fears and the blighting of hope, for 
we say that only while there is life is there hope. But there 
is another side. 
In trying to help you I would like to talk for awhile on the 
eleventh chapter of John. I feel that in this way I shall be 
better able to show you what I see but dimly though 
assuredly. This chapter contains the story of the sickness, 
death and raising of Lazarus. Three of Jesus' most loving 
friends lived at Bethany—Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. 
Jesus often made his home with them. Perhaps to none was 
he nearer and dearer than to these three. It was that Mary 
who anointed the Lord with ointment and wiped his feet 
with her hair—a deed of tenderest love in which was 
expressed the hope of his resurrection, for it is love that 
gives us Jesus back again,—Yes, that keeps him ever with 
Once while Jesus was away, a trouble came to this home. 
The brother, probably the sole support of the family, was 
taken sick. What the disease was we do not know, but the 
sisters felt that it would prove fatal and their hearts turned 
toward Jesus for help. A messenger was sent to him saying: 
"He whom thou lovest is sick."
Notice the words of the message. It was not, "He whom 
we love is sick," but "He whom thou lovest." Their own 
care and sorrow, their own anxieties and fears, seem 
forgotten. It was enough for them to tell Christ that one 
whom he loved was in danger. 
You have taken a sick one to Jesus in prayer. Did you do 
so in this way, or did you say, "My child, the one I love, is 
sick, and I am anxious about him"? Did you forget Jesus' 
love for your dear one—that his care, his anxiety, was 
greater than yours could be? Did you think of your loved 
one as being even more truly his loved one? If in all our 
prayers to him, his thought and care for us, and his interest 

in us, were uppermost, instead of our own, how it would 
increase our faith and trust, and give peace and confidence 
in the issue! 
When Jesus heard the message, he quieted the disciples' 
fears by saying, "This sickness is not unto death, but for the 
glory of God." 
"Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus. 
When he had heard therefore that he was sick, he abode 
two days still in the same place where he was." Perhaps in 
your trouble you have turned to Jesus, but he did not come, 

while others who called upon him

were answered quickly. Those who love him most, trust 
him most fully. To such he may delay coming, that through 
the delay he may bring a greater joy than healing. 
"Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus." His 
love is the same for all—he does not select a certain few to 
love more than others—but it is only the one that both sees 
his love and responds to it who can truly say, "He loves 
"Then after that saith he to his disciples, Let us go into 
Judaea again." He says nothing of Bethany or of Lazarus. 
"His disciples say unto him, Master, the Jews of late sought 
to stone thee; and goest thou thither again?" Possibly they 
wondered if thoughts of impending danger to his life had 
not something to do with his failure to go to Lazarus at 
once. But never does love think of itself when danger 
threatens another. It costs Jesus everything to be everything 
to you and me; "I lay down my life for the sheep." 
Jesus' reply to his disciples was: "Are there not twelve 
hours in the day? If any man walk in the day, he stumbleth 
not, because he seeth the light of this world." He that walks 
in self-thought walks in the night. He that walks in thought 
of others walks in
the light of heaven. God is almighty because he is love. 
But Jesus must explain to his disciples his errand. It is 
proper that they should know of Lazarus' death before they 
reach Bethany. Notice how gently he breaks to them the 
news, for they, too, love Lazarus. 
First he says, "Our friend Lazarus sleepeth; but I go, that 
I may awake him out of sleep." "Our friend"—the one we 
all love—sleepeth, and I go to awake him." Though they 
think of one sleeping as taking rest, they feel that Jesus' 
words must mean something more than that—for would he 
take this journey to awake a sleeper, when restful sleep in 
sickness means refreshment? 
Then said his disciples, "Lord, if he sleep, he shall do 
well." Sleep resembles death, yet by it we escape death. 
The patient tosses; the fever is high; the suspense of the 
watchers is great. Gradually he becomes quiet; he drops off 
to sleep; then with relief we say, 
"He is sleeping." 
We kiss our tired loved ones good night. As they sleep 
we listen with pleasure to the gentle, regular breathing. Yet 
sleep is like death, the calm after the excitement of the day. 
Then when those dear ones are all
asleep, we turn our heads upon our pillows and sleep also. 
As in death, so in sleep they are absent from us; but we see 
them sleep without grieving because at any time we may 
awake them. 
"I go, that I may awake him." It was not to Jesus that 
Lazarus slept, but to the sisters' and the disciples' sense of 
things. Thus these words were for them. To them he would 
awake him. To most people death proves a barrier of 
separation. In Christ it may prove to us only a sleep, for 
Jesus can awake for us his loved one. "I cannot wake my 
mamma!" was the despairing cry that burst from a child's 
lips in the presence of death for the first time—the child 
who before had contentedly looked upon his sleeping 
mother, because he knew that at any time he wished he 
could awake her. 
Finally Jesus must tell them that Lazarus is dead. How 
hopefully he breaks the news! If only the terrible tidings of 
death's work might be broken in such a way to each human 
heart! Only "asleep,"—and "I will awake him for you." 
And why should it not be so? 
"Lazarus is dead. And I am glad. for your sakes that I was 
not there, to the intent ye may believe." Had Jesus been there 

the sickness, he would have healed Lazarus. As he was 
away, apparently he could now do a better thing. Perhaps 
you have thought, "If only Jesus were with me in the body, 
as he was with his friends in the long ago, how I could 
leave with him every care, every worry! And how truly 
should I receive from his hands the fulfillment of every 
request!" But Jesus says, "I am glad for your sakes that I 
was not there, to the intent ye may believe." But more 
especially "for your sake"—because there is something I 
want to show you, something I want you to believe, which I 
could not have shown you had I been there. If only you and 
I could lovingly trust to his plans in all things, we should 
always find in them something for which to be glad—in 
disappointments, losses, sicknesses, death. Indeed, the 
seeming worst might mean the best. 
Now the little company has reached Bethany. This is a 
small village near Jerusalem. Many friends of the sisters 
and of Lazarus are there, and some who are not friends. 
Hired mourners are wailing, as is the custom—for, in the 
time of death, of all times, we must conform to usage. 
Others are there professing grief, within whose hearts are 

no thoughts of sorrow. Jesus' coming is heralded
in advance, and Martha goes to meet him. 
Then said Martha unto Jesus, "Lord, if thou hadst been 
here, my brother had not died." Her first words have an "if" 
in them. Is it not always so in the presence of death? When 
in our weakness we have done our best we say, "If we had 
employed a different doctor! If we had sent for the doctor 
sooner I If only we had done this or that!" How useless are 
all such thoughts and words, and often how unjust to both 
others and ourselves I 
But Martha's "if" was different from most of these. "If 
thou hadst been here." Why? Because of Jesus' love for 
Lazarus she felt he would not have let him die. She knew 
the heart of Jesus when she said this, and undoubtedly she 
read it aright. Often, however, the most trying part of all is 
to know that Jesus can do, and yet does not do, that which 
our hearts seem to tell us he would do if he loved us. 
Indeed the Christian often feels most unkindly toward 
Christ at such times. Safety from these feelings lies only in 
perfectly self-forgetful love and confidence, which Martha 
showed when she sent the message saying, "He whom thou 
lovest is sick." If Jesus loves me perfectly, he also loves my 
brother as truly as I love him. His grief is
as my grief, and love forgets its own trouble in thinking of 
the sorrow of the one it loves. 

Such love gives trust that makes infinite helpfulness 
possible, and there fall now from Martha's lips words of 
wondrous faith and confidence: "But I know, that even 
now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it 
thee." Perhaps she knew that Jesus had before raised the 
dead. She knew at least that he would and could do 
whatever was best. "Whatsoever thou wilt." It is not a 
petition. She does not ask him for anything. Perfect love 
trusts perfectly and is a continually restful state. This is 
always the spirit of true prayer. It looks to Christ to do as 
he wills. It knows his love and trusts it. Such an one Jesus 
can and always does comfort. 
"Thy brother shall rise again." Not, "he whom I love 
shall rise," but "thy brother." Jesus is thinking of her loss. 
"Rise again"—this is merely the encouragement given to all 
believing hearts, yet the words have a new meaning from 
his lips. He is raising her hopes, but must raise them 
slowly, for sudden joy will hurt as surely as sudden grief; 
so his first words convey to her but little of what he has to 
She replies, "I know that he shall rise again
in the resurrection at the last day." And in her heart no 
doubt she added, "But it is a long time until then, and oh, 
how I need my brother!" "The last day." Oh, the spirit's 
anguish when it feels it must struggle along, for years, 
waiting for that last day, the day of resurrection! If with 
Martha we can say, "I know that whatsoever thou wilt ask 
of God, God will give it thee," with a love equal to the 
heart's trust, we may hear such words as those that now fell 

from Jesus' lips—words that would hush the world's grief 
today, could it but grasp them: "Jesus said unto her, I am 
the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, 
though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever 
liveth and believeth in me shall never die." 
"I am the resurrection." If we could but cast away for a 
moment all our fears, all other theories and beliefs as to the 
future world, and appropriate to ourselves his words, how 
they would still our anguish at such times! There can be no 
doubt that Jesus spoke of a present resurrection. He as 
much as said to Martha: "If any one shall have faith in me 
while alive, he shall never die to earth. He shall never see 
death for himself. And such an one that seems dead may be 
called back
to earth life." It is told of something different—something 
that must have meant to her far more than the general 
resurrection. When she spoke of the general resurrection, 
Jesus assured her that was not what he meant. Death is still 
an unvanquished foe to most Christians. "The last enemy 
that shall be destroyed is death." Then there are those who 
shall overcome even death. I wish every Christian might do 
so. Try to grasp the force of his words: Martha! My 
precious Martha! I, whom you love and trust, "I am the 
resurrection;" there is no last day about it. "I am the life;" 
there is no death about it. Many associate God with death, 
or think of death as his agent, but Jesus pictures himself as 
"the life." 

"He that believeth in me, though he were dead" (seems to 
you dead), "yet shall he live" (or yet liveth he). And to 
make the matter still plainer, Jesus adds, "Whosoever liveth 
and believeth in me shall never die." "Shall never die." It is 
from the sisters' standpoint that he speaks. He proves this to 
be so by what he is soon to do for them. And besides, the 
promise is to all who believe, for he says, "Whosoever 
liveth and believeth in me shall never die." There is no 
death, then,
to the true believer. Yes, it is of a never-dying life that he is 
trying to tell her—of this there can be no question. What 
then of death? To you or your loved ones may it be as 
sleep, for Christ can awake all. His own cannot die, for he 
is life. What of resurrection? They have him, and he is the 
resurrection. Ever alive in Jesus—yes, not even asleep—are 
all who trust him. 
"Liveth and believeth." Not a merely negative belief. 
True living means a life all with Jesus. It is living your 
belief. Such an one shall never die; it is impossible. "He 
that hath the Son hath life" (truly). Notice the 
circumstances under which these last words to Martha were 
spoken. It was only a few days before the speaker should 
himself hang upon a cross almost in sight of Bethany. Did 
Jesus die? Yes, and no. His enemies tauntingly said, "He 
saved others; himself he cannot save." The centurion 
pronounced him dead. His friends laid his body in the 
grave, but a little later when they looked there for him, they 
found him not. To us he seems to have slept, but he that 
awaketh others will awake himself for us. It was only a 
little while until Jesus was with them once more. He 

became the first fruits of them that slept.

Believest thou this?" The words of Jesus were too 
much for Martha to grasp in a moment. She believes, but 
she does not understand; yet she has a noble answer for 
him: "Yea, Lord: I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son 
of God, which should come into the world." The Son of 
God I God himself! The Messiah! We may not understand, 
yet we may believe. 
And now Martha's thoughts are of her sister; she will 
cheer Mary by bringing her to the Master, who longs to see 
her, for Martha's message is: "He calleth for thee." "Then 
when Mary was come where Jesus was, and saw him, she 
fell down at his feet, saying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst 
been here, my brother had not died." The loving Mary is 
again in love's place, where she may clasp the feet of him 
whom she loves. Long has she waited for him—for him 
who alone can make all right. 
Jesus does not try to teach Mary by talking to her as he 
has done to her sister Martha. He knows her heart. Her 
tears mean more than words. "When Jesus therefore saw 
her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with 
her, he groaned in the spirit and was troubled." He weeps 
with the one who loves, and she who loves weeps on his 

bosom. Jesus
is troubled in my troubles. He groans because I weep. But 
why should Jesus have wept when he was about to bring 
joy? It could not have been a pretense. He weeps with us 
today, although knowing that he will bring joy out of 
sorrow. He weeps when I needlessly weep. He must sorrow 
with me in order to bring joy. He must suffer in order to 
save, and I must bring my suffering to him. I must not 
suffer by myself, if I would reign with him through 
suffering and over it. Only as he is one with me in my sleep 
of sorrow, can he make me one with him in joyful 
awakening. Only thus can he who is ever awake to himself 
change dread death to thoughts of peace—sleep—awaking 
for me. The successful physician must enter into the 
patient's suffering; the parent must suffer with the child to 
bring it back to health again; the nurse must put loving 
sympathy into her work. Jesus, the Captain of our salvation, 
is made perfect through suffering (Heb. 2: 10). He can save 
fully because he suffers fully. 
"Jesus wept." The shortest verse in the Bible! Only two 
words, but words that mean so much to every sorrowing 
heart I As he wept with them, so would he weep with me. 
My loved one is his loved one. My sorrow is his.
Have these words painted. Place them where you can 
always see them. Hang them low, that the eyes may light 
upon them when the head is bowed down with sadness. It is 
right to weep if we weep aright. joy is not expressed in 
smiles alone; there is joy in tears. It was through tears that 
Mary Magdalene saw what the other women failed to 
see—her Christ. Even though my weeping be a weakness, 
Jesus weeps with me—"for he knoweth our frame" (Ps. 
103: 14). But how careful should I be not to cause him 
needless weeping, needless sorrow, by my weeping! Every 
blow that falls on me smites him. Every arrow that pierces 
me must first pierce him, yea, pass through him to pierce 
But Jesus' tears were regarded differently by different 
persons. Some exclaimed, "Behold how he loved him!" 
Others said "Could not this man, which opened the eyes of 
the blind, have caused that even this man should not have 
died?" Why should infinite love open some eyes and close 
others? Why should my only darling be taken away, the 
one whom I need so much, while another, friendless and 
alone, longing for death, is left to drag on a seemingly 
useless life? Either Jesus' love for Lazarus cannot be 

genuine, or else the power
claimed by him is a pretense. How many a Christian has 
lost his faith in God at such times as this—faith in his love, 
faith in his power, yes, faith even in his existence. Such 
thoughts may come to a heart that knows not Jesus—it is 
not the sisters who murmur. 
Jesus said, "Where have ye laid him? They said unto 
him, Lord, come and see." If Jesus is to bring your lost one 
to you, you must take the Master to the place where to you 
he now is. We brood alone over our absent ones. If Jesus is 
with you in thoughts of them, as he liveth with you so may 
they also live with you. 
He "cometh to the grave. It was a cave, and a stone lay 
upon it. Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the 
sister of him that was dead, saith unto him, Lord, by this 
time he stinketh." It seemed too late for help. Jesus had 
never before raised one so long dead. It is said the Jews 
believed that for three days the spirit hovered around the 
body, but the fourth day it departed never to return. There 
are always physical obstacles in the way of faith. So, too, 
with us; we bring Christ to where we have laid our loved 
one, yet not entirely. When we try to trust, it seems too late 
for his blessings. But nothing stands in
the way of his doing for those who trust him completely. 
"Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee, that, if thou 
wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?" 
Believing and seeing! Will you believe Jesus fully and 
Then you shall see his glory for yourself. Only complete, 
loving trust can see his glory, others know it not. 
But notice! What did they see? Was it a grand procession 
of heavenly beings with celestial harps, praising God? Was 
it a million worlds passing in review before him in perfect 
harmony and order? Was it a display of magnificence or 
grandeur of any kind? No. Simply the bringing back to life 
of a good friend of Bethany; the healing of two broken 
hearts. What then can be meant by this Cc glory of God"? It 
is the opposite of all earthly glory. God is love—and what 
is the glory of love? It is the glory of being everything to 
his creatures. His glory is not to kill, but to give life. Jesus 
is a life-giver, for Jesus is life. Some sickness is not unto 
death, but unto the glory of God. 
But now before he raises Lazarus from the grave he lifts 
up his eyes, those tear-dimmed eyes, and says: "Father, I 

thank thee that
thou hast heard me." The prayer is in secret. The thanks are 
given publicly. He gives thanks before those about him see 
that he has been answered. The prayer of trusting faith 
knows its answer in advance. When did the Father hear and 
answer him? Was is just before coming to the grave, when 
he said, "Where have ye laid him?" Was it when he said to 
the disciples "Lazarus sleepeth; but I go, that I may awake 
him out of sleep"? Or was it when he declared "'This 
sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God"? 
Prayer is a state of constant looking to God in trust, rather 
than of seasons of petitions and answers. 
"And I knew that thou hearest me always: but because of 
the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe 
that thou hast sent me." Because of others we thank him. 
Public thanksgiving is necessary. Prayer were often better 
in private. 
"A loud voice." Loud, so that those about would hear it. 
Jesus fears no disappointment to his call. The same voice 
that before showed grief now speaks with power and 
confidence. Many a time have the names of lost loved ones 
been on our lips, as vainly we called them to come back. 
Wherever they are, they are not out of reach of Jesus. To 
him they ever live.
God is not the God of the dead, but of the living—all 
living. You are asleep—dreaming of other things; a 
thousand sounds from without fall unheeded on the ear, but 
a loved one's voice calls—it may be a low tone—and you 
awake instantly. Love ever answers to the call of the one it 
loves. A Northern soldier boy lies dying in a Southern 
hospital. The mother hears of it. She will reach him in some 
way. A pass from the President places her beyond the lines 
of the Northern army. Her story passes her through the 
ranks of the enemy and to her boy. "He has but a little 
while to live," the doctor tells her. "He would not know 
you. He has not known anyone for the last three days. You 
had better not go in. It may hasten his death." But the 
mother's pleading wins her a place beside her boy. It is only 
one word, spoken just above a whisper, "Charley!" But the 
mother speaks it. There is life and healing in the voice. 
Death is robbed of its victim. 
This is one of Jesus' late miracles. The first miracle was 
at a wedding—at the beginning of home life, when all was 
cheer. The other is when death is in the home and all is 

sadness. How often have we contrasted the
awful present with the care-free past when our home life 
first began I But he, the Christ, is sufficient for our joys and 
our griefs, and he would be one with us in both. 
Some have thought that Jesus raised Lazarus to show his 
power. But all that Jesus did for human hearts he did in 
compassion. Frequently is this word "compassion" coupled 
with his healing and helping. To do for the express purpose 
of attracting eyes to himself would have been self-thought 
and self-glory. Jesus' motive was always the motive of 
love. It showed his true glory—the glory of love. It showed 
the Father. John says, "These signs were done that ye might 
believe." Yes, so that all might believe and be helped, even 
as were the sisters; so that today we might be led—your 
heart and mine—to believe and trust him to the uttermost. 
It is not enough that Christ comforts one Martha or one 
family; his love must take in all. If it had been alone for 
them, why should he say, "Whosoever believeth"? Are you 
all-alive in Jesus? As you love him you live in him. Death 
only brings our loved ones closer to him. Do you truly 
believe this? Is Jesus alive with you? Is he alive with your 
loved ones? If so, why is not the link complete? Why need 
death separate
you from any who know both Christ and you? As one of his 
late miracles, it is fitting that this should be the crowning 
one of all—one showing him all-sufficient in all our 
sorrows and needs. The life here is the only life I have now. 
Jesus came to reveal himself as sufficient for this life. If he 
could not be everything to me here, I might doubt his being 
everything to me anywhere. If I do not need him to be 
everything to me here, will I in heaven? Yet the Bible 
teaches that he is the center in thought of heaven—the 
Light of it. 
There may be few who have in the night of bereavement 
so truly clung to Jesus as the resurrection and the life that it 
was to them a night of rest, knowing that he would call the 
loved one whenever wanted; but there have been some. 
Others have found him mindful, as the sisters did, after 
days of patient waiting, But many know nothing of that 
communion which he gladly gives to those who can receive 
it. I do not allude to dreams, nor yet to spirit visitations, 
such as come to those whose minds are overwrought with 
nervous unrest, but to a living, wide-awake communion, 
possible to loving hearts which rest in him. 
Have you learned thus to live with Jesus? Has he become 

to you nearest and dearest of
all? Do you love others only as associated with him? Do 
you express his love with yours? Is he ever interwoven in 
your thought of others? Are you always thinking of his 
care, his love, his anxiety, for each one whom you love? 
And do you remember that he must suffer when trouble 
comes to such, and also that he must rejoice in their joy? 
Then do not worry if death comes, for none who believe in 
him shall ever die. To you their dying need be only a sleep. 
If you have not yet begun to live aright, if Jesus is not yet 
everything to you, or if your loved ones do not love 
him—what then? Begin now. Open the whole heart to him. 
Nothing but your own will stands in the way of your 
coming into this changed relationship. Ere you have long 
been there, perhaps those whom you love will have found 
out your secret and also have entered the charmed life. At 
least it will place you where you can ever work together 
with God in the lives of those about you. 
May you learn truly to see "the glory of God" in Jesus 
until it brings to you a present resurrection of buried hopes 
and a life all joy in him.

Please become a Christian if you are NOT one ALREADY because Yahweh IS God Almighty and the ONLY way to Heaven is through putting ALL of your Faith in Yeshua (Jesus Christ). By the way incase you need to see a prayer that you can say I have posted one on most of my previous posts and you can find a prayer for Salvation on several websites. For Your Information the one which I used can be found on the following webpage: .

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