“I deeply thank you,” he said, “for your kind words.  May all happiness be yours forever.”  And then they parted, not the same as when they met, but linked together by the chain of sympathy and common needs.

Clarence heard not the words of his wife that night as he entered his home, who after a while grew weary of his absent replies, and found consolation in sleep.  But to him sleep was not thought of.  All night he laid awake, his being transfused with a new current of thought, and his life going out and soaring upward into a higher existence.  The warp of a new garment was set in the loom.  What hand would shape and weave the woof?

When day broke over the hills another morning burst on his senses, and Clarence Bowen, of the gay world, was not the same as before, but a man of high resolves and noble purposes, trying to live a better life.

Slowly his higher nature unfolded.  Very slowly came the truths to his mind, as Dawn presented them with all the vigor and freshness of her nature.  She told him the story of Margaret, of her death and burial, and of her father; and while he listened with tear-dimmed eyes, his soul became white with repentance.  As Dawn spoke, the vision came and went,—­each time with the countenance more at rest.  It was an experience such as but few have; only those who seen beyond, and know that mortals return to rectify errors after their decease.

There could be no rest for either, until a reconciliation was effected.  Happy he who can stand between the two worlds and transmit the most earnest wishes of the unseen, to those of earth.  The mission, though fraught with many sorrows, is divine and soul-uplifting to the subject.  But who can know these truths save one who has experiened them?  The human soul has little power of imparting to another its deepest feelings.  We may speak, but who will believe, or sense our experiences?  An ancient writer says:  “There are many kinds of voices in the world, but none of them without signification.  Therefore, if I know not the meaning of the voice, I shall be unto him that speaketh a barbarian, and he that speaketh shall be a barbarian unto me.”

“When you tell me of these things I believe; they are real to me,” said Clarence, “but if I read them, or hear them related as the experience of others, they are dull and meaningless; why is this?”

“I suppose it is because you so feel my life and assurance of them, that in my atmosphere they become real and tangible to you.”

“I think it must be so.  I may yet find strength enough to walk alone.”

“You will walk with her who comes to mingle her happiness with yours, and to help bear your crosses.”

“Is it wrong to wish to die?”

“It is better, I think, to desire to live here our appointed time, and ultimate the purpose of our earthly existence.”

“But I can never be happy here, for there are none who understand me.”