of earth how one felt sometimes in an unfamiliar place—­among a gathering of strangers—­at church perhaps, or at some school which one visited, where one saw the young faces, which showed so clearly, before the world had stamped itself in frowns and heaviness upon them, the quality of the soul within?  Don’t you remember the feeling at such times of how many there were in the world whom one might love, if one had leisure and opportunity and energy?  Well, there is no need to resist that, or to deplore it here; one may go where one’s will inclines one, and speak as one’s heart tells one to speak.  I think you are perhaps too conscious of waiting for something.  Your task lies ahead of you, but the work of love can begin at once and anywhere.”

“Yes,” I said, “I feel that now and here.  Will you not tell me something of yourself in return?  I cannot read your mind clearly—­it is occupied with something I cannot grasp—­what is your work in heaven?”

“Oh,” he said lightly, “that is easy enough, and yet you would not understand it.  I have been led through the shadow of fear, and I have passed out on the other side.  And my duty is to release others from fear, as far as I can.  It is the darkest shadow of all, because it dwells in the unknown.  Pain, without it, is no suffering at all; indeed pain is almost a pleasure, when one knows what it is doing for one.  But fear is the doubt whether pain or suffering are really helping us; and just as memory never has any touch of fear about it, so hope may likewise have done with fear.”

“But how did you learn this?” I said.

“Only by fearing to the uttermost,” he replied.  “The power—­it is not courage, because that only defies fear—­cannot be given one; it must be painfully won.  You remember the blessing of the pure in heart, that they shall see God?  There would be little hope in that promise for the soul that knew itself to be impure, if it were not for the other side of it—­that the vision of God, which is the most terrible of all things, can give purity to the most sin-stained soul.  In that vision, all desire and all fear have an end, because there is nothing left either to desire or to dread.  That vision we may delay or hasten.  We may delay it, if we allow our prudence, or our shame, or our comfort, to get in the way:  we may hasten it, if we cast ourselves at every moment of our pilgrimage upon the mercy and the love of God.  His one desire is that we should be satisfied; and if He seems to put obstacles in our way, to keep us waiting, to permit us to be miserable, that is only that we may learn to cast ourselves into love and service—­which is the one way to His heart.  But now I must be going, for I have said all that you can bear.  Will you remember this—­not to reserve yourself, not to think others unworthy or hostile, but to cast your love and trust freely and lavishly, everywhere and anywhere?  We must gather nothing, hold on to nothing, just give ourselves away at every moment, flowing like the stream into every channel that is open, withholding nothing, retaining nothing.  I see,” he added, “very great and beautiful things ahead of you, and very sad and painful things as well.  But you are close to the light, and it is breaking all about you with a splendour which you cannot guess.”