“It is no use for a man to attempt copying that living, throbbing scene, nor yet to describe it,” he said, with an air of dissatisfaction.

“To copy would be easy, compared with creating it,” I suggested timidly.

“Yes; but when, and by whom done?  That is the question that maddens one,” he answered after a long pause.

“The Bible says the same hand that was nailed to the cross on Calvary created it.  ‘By whom also the worlds were made,’” I murmured.

“Ah, if we only had some evidence of that; but it is all dark, dark, on the other side of death, and on the other side of life too.  Whence came we—­whither do we tend?  What power sent Sirius and all that galaxy of suns marching serenely through space?  We, in our little planet-ship, falling into line, going like comets one day, and then vanishing; but the worlds moving on unconscious of our departure, and yet some power controls them and us.  Medoline, to have my faith anchored as yours is, to a beneficent, all-powerful God, I would be willing to die this instant if I might be absorbed into Him, or be taken into his presence forever.  You who can calmly accept your religion as you do the atmosphere you inhale, should live as far above earthly passions and entanglements, as those light clouds hanging in yonder vault are above the earth; nay, rather like the stars which only touch us by that law of the universe that holds the remotest stars together.”

“Have you tried any more earnestly to find the God of the Bible than you have done Boodh or Vishnu, or other man-created deities?” I asked.

He turned to me in his keen, incisive way:—­“No, Medoline, I cannot say that I have—­not since boyhood, at least, when my mother, who loved the God whom Israel served so indifferently, endeavored to train my rebellious will to His service.”

“You have lived all these years Godless?”

“In plain English, yes.”

“Then that great star, Sirius, you just spoke of, and all the other suns, and their systems, as well as the humblest created things, have fulfilled the purposes of their Maker’s will, save the last supreme effort of His power—­man, originally made a ‘little lower than God.’  I wonder that I honor you as I do, when you deny the existence of my God and Saviour.”

He looked down at me with a gentleness at which I was surprised, and his next question did not lessen this.

“Would you be terrified if death, in some form, were suddenly to seize you, dismissing you from your present environments into the unclothed state, could you trust, to the uttermost, this mighty Being whose friendship you so confidently claim?”

I paused before replying.  Certainly death just then did not seem welcome.  I loved life and enjoyed it, and longed for its fuller experiences.  As I studied his question, there came a fear that, since I clung with such desire to life, I could not be fitted for higher places.  No doubt he saw the pained, uncertain look on my face, which his question had caused.