“Yes” I answered, softly, too surprised to say more.  In speaking of religion he, as a rule, showed to the full the reserve which is characteristic of his class and country, and this sudden outburst was in itself astonishing; but the eager anxiety with which he emphasized the last words of appeal impressed and bewildered me still further.  We walked on for some minutes in silence.  Then suddenly Alan stopped, and turning, took my hand in his.  In what direction his mind had been working in the interval I could not divine; but the moment he began to speak I felt that he was now for the first time giving utterance to what had been really at the bottom of his thoughts the whole evening.  Even in that dim light I could see the anxious look upon his face, and his voice shook with restrained emotion.

“Evie,” he said, “have you ever thought of the world in which our spirits dwell, as our bodies do in this one of matter and sense, and of how it may be peopled?  I know,” he went on hurriedly, “that it is the fashion nowadays to laugh at such ideas.  I envy those who have never had cause to be convinced of their reality, and I hope that you may long remain among the number.  But should that not be so, should those unseen influences ever touch your life, I want you to remember then, that, as one of the race for whom Christ died, you have as high a citizenship in that spirit land as any creature there:  that you are your own soul’s warden, and that neither principalities nor powers can rob you of that your birthright.”

I think my face must have shown my bewilderment, for he dropped my hand, and walked on with an impatient sigh.

“You don’t understand me.  Why should you?  I dare-say that I am talking nonsense—­only—­only—­”

His voice expressed such an agony of doubt and hesitation that I burst out—­

“I think that I do understand you a little, Alan.  You mean that even from unearthly enemies there is nothing that we need really fear—­at least, that is, I suppose, nothing worse than death.  But that is surely enough!”

“Why should you fear death?” he said, abruptly; “your soul will live.”

“Yes, I know that, but still—­” I stopped with a shudder.

“What is life after all but one long death?” he went on, with sudden violence.  “Our pleasures, our hopes, our youth are all dying; ambition dies, and even desire at last; our passions and tastes will die, or will live only to mourn their dead opportunity.  The happiness of love dies with the loss of the loved, and, worst of all, love itself grows old in our hearts and dies.  Why should we shrink only from the one death which can free us from all the others?”

“It is not true, Alan!” I cried, hotly.  “What you say is not true.  There are many things even here which are living and shall live; and if it were otherwise, in everything, life that ends in death is better than no life at all.”