“Nearly everything is changed, but mostly man and his works.  When the bandages were finally removed, and all the other necessary restrictions, I asked to have my first glimpse of the outer world into the starry night.  I do not think our language has a well deep enough to express what I felt in that first glimpse.  But the human faces are sadly changed.  Poverty and care, I find, are not beautifiers.  My own daughter looks a stranger; only when I hear her speak.  My own face surprised me most.  It is changed past recognition.”

He spoke a little sadly.  I could think of no comforting words.  After we had walked on some time in silence, he said: 

“I do not think the revelations after death will be any stranger than those of the past few weeks.  My blindness and restoration to sight have, in a measure, anticipated the full return of all the faculties that death, for a brief season, takes from us.”

“Do you think any experience we have in this world touches on those mysteries of the first hours of immortal life?  I cannot imagine any sensation that will be common to the two existences.”

“There is certainly one—­probably very, very many.  I cannot believe there will be much change in the relationship that exists between the consecrated soul and its centre of attraction.  Deepened, intensified, it no doubt will be; but not radically changed.”

My thoughts instantly turned to the words the oculist had written.  No wonder a man living so far within the confines of the unseen should be able to exercise almost superhuman patience under the most trying exigencies of life.  When we reached the broken gate leading into the house, he paused and turned to me.  He was silent for a few seconds, and then said, apparently with an effort:  “I want to thank you for what you have done for me.  Last night, on my way home from the house of prayer, I was hunting up the constellations that once I loved to trace and call by name, and, in some way, you were brought to mind with all that you have generously done for me; and then, and there, I tried to frame some words of gratitude by which to express what I felt.  In Heaven I may be able; for only there we shall have language for our utmost stretch of thought.”

“Perhaps before we meet there, as I pray God we may do, I may have more reason for gratitude than you.  Have you not told me that your daily prayer is for my salvation?”

I said good-bye hurriedly without waiting for a reply, and turned my face homeward.  Gradually there was coming into my heart the hope that ere long I might come into the same wealthy place where he walked with such serenity even amid life’s sore trials.

CHAPTER XVII.

Christmas-tide.