“Come, see with Me My garden.”

And the air, which is filled with light, grows buoyant, and, while her hand is still clasped by the Divine Guide, she is wafted upwards.

Stretched out below, the hills and vales of the earth are one vast garden.  All is indistinct at first; expanses of misty colour and tint; but by degrees the scene resolves itself into more definite form.  The whole is intersected and watered with streams, more or less clear and pure, which arise and are replenished from a bright vapour, the Spirit of Life, which shines, issuing forth from an empty tomb in a rock in the East.  There are banks of wild violets and primroses, and woods filled with anemones and hyacinths—­myriads of beautiful flowers, reaching over all the world.

Hazel has hardly taken in anything of the wonder of the scene, when her attention is attracted by an arch of white mist above the earth, and, as it seems, but a few paces from her.  Gradually this path of mist grows clear as crystal, and the colours glancing in it take shape, and form a clear, transparent picture.

A cornfield on a summer evening, filled with blossoms of poppies and corn-flowers.  A wild storm sweeps over the field; the corn is broken down; the flowers are crushed beneath its weight, draggled and withered.  A poppy, torn up by its roots, is whirled through the air.

A mist sweeps over the crystalline cloud, and where it grows clear again the scene is changed to a wild hill-side.  Scarlet and blue flowers intermingle in the distance; in the foreground lies a single poppy, withered and dying.  Slowly, beside it a lily grows up; as it grows the fading poppy is stirred, touched by its leaves; and the tiny bells waving over it inspire new life and vigour, till at length, grown whole and fresh, it is loosened from the brown uptorn roots, and floats upwards, to bloom more beautiful in Paradise.

Again the mist passes over the light picture and changes it.  A woodland scene is painted there now.  Amid the fern and moss and twigs under the trees, wild flowers are blowing.  A pathway intersects the little wood, and across it shadows of the trees fall, with sunlight between.  In the foremost patch of sunshine, at the edge of the path, is a sprinkling of anemone leaves.  And there amongst them a delicate blossom, half crushed by the superincumbent weight of moss, the fallen leaves of last year, and tiny, lichen-covered twigs.  The white, transparent petals are soiled and deformed, thrust down to the earth.  As Hazel looks, regretting that she has not the power to stretch forth her hand and clear away the destructive weight, the leaves and twigs tremble, and are uplifted, and fall away from the slender plant, for close beside it a hardy little fern frond slowly uncurls itself and arises.  The frail blossom stirs slightly, released from the overwhelming pressure; but has no strength to do more.  Oh, for water to revive it!  And, lo! from the fair green fern drops of