when Atma lived without the religion which was so mortal that it died in his heart because he found that its friends were false, he knew God, for this veil was removed, and when the weakness of human nature again demanded the support of habit and formula, he turned to the mystic rites and prayers endeared and hallowed by association, but he knew now that God is a spirit, for spirit with spirit had met.  A silence, born of great reverence, rested upon him, and he no more clamoured to save the world.  The fall of the Khalsa no longer meant the downfall of God, and in time even the heartache for the vanquishment of his early dreams disappeared.

And the memory of his love?  Love is transient, but frozen lips and closed eyes can speak with a power unknown to the living, and the power abides to a longer day than the living voice had controlled.  And so the night of his mourning was long, but the longest night has a dawn, and it seems to me that the saddest thing I can say in ending my tale is that the morning dawned and grief was forgotten.  It is sad that we forget joys; it is sadder to forget sorrows.

And so this story of religion that called itself heavenly, and love that was most mortal, is over.  Atma had had of earth’s most beautiful things,

     “O Love, Religion, Music—­all
     That’s left of Eden upon earth,”—­

but no—­Love and Religion are not left.

The end.