“Nothing,” he answered.  “Who could?  And by what means?”

“Has there been no value in philosophy,” she asked, “and the meditations of learned men?”

“Philosophy!” he sneered.  “What has it done for us?  It has taught us some processes of the mind’s working; taught us a few wonderful things which interest the few; but the centuries have come and gone, and the only thing which the whole human race pants to know, remains unknown:  our beloved ones, shall we meet them, and how?—­the great secret of the universe.  We ask for bread, and these philosophers give us a stone.  What help could come from them:  or from any one?  Death is simply one of the hard facts of life.”

“And the greatest evil,” she said.

“We weave our romances about the next world,” he continued; “and any one who has a fresh romance to relate, or an old one dressed up in new language, will be listened to, and welcomed.  That helps some people for a little while; and when the charm of the romance is over, then they are ready for another, perhaps more fantastic than the last.  But the plot is always the same:  our beloved ones—­shall we meet them, and how?  Isn’t it pitiful?  Why cannot we be more impersonal?  These puny, petty minds of ours!  When will they learn to expand?”

“Why should we learn to be more impersonal?” she said.  “There was a time when I felt like that; but now I have learnt something better:  that we need not be ashamed of being human; above all, of having the best of human instincts, love, and the passionate wish for its continuance, and the unceasing grief at its withdrawal.  There is no indignity in this; nor any trace of weakmindedness in our restless craving to know about the Hereafter, and the possibilities of meeting again those whom we have lost here.  It is right, and natural, and lovely that it should be the most important question.  I know that many will say that there are weightier questions:  they say so, but do they think so?  Do we want to know first and foremost whether we shall do our work better elsewhere:  whether we shall be endowed with more wisdom:  whether, as poor Mr. Reffold said, we shall be glad to behave less like curs, and more like heroes?  These questions come in, but they can be put aside.  The other question can never be put on one side.  If that were to become possible, it would only be so because the human heart had lost the best part of itself, its own humanity.  We shall go on building our bridge between life and death, each one for himself.  When we see that it is not strong enough, we shall break it down and build another.  We shall watch other people building their bridges.  We shall imitate, or criticise, or condemn.  But as time goes on, we shall learn not to interfere, we shall know that one bridge is probably as good as the other; and that the greatest value of them all has been in the building of them.  It does not matter what we build, but build we must:  you, and I, and every one.”