“I would I had your faith to sustain me,” he said to Hugh, a few weeks after the burial.

“It’s the only thing which takes the sting of death away, and makes the tomb but a passage to the skies,” was the response.  “I would not be without its blessed, consoling influence for all this world can give, aside from the light which we daily receive into our lives from those who have passed the vale.”

“Are they not about us the same, whether we believe in their presence or not?”

“No, not the same.  You are not the same to your friend who has little or no faith in your life, and your motives of action, as you are to one who has full trust and belief.”

“No, I am not.  In order, therefore, that our unseen friends may fully aid us, we must believe in their presence and ability to do so.  Christ could not help some because of their unbelief.”

“Even so.  He who gives us no heed, has no communion with us.  But the faith of which I speak, is not gained at once; it is of a slow and natural growth.  Again and again must we thrust our hand through the darkness, ere we grasp the anchor.  Often will the cloud envelope us, and all seem dark as night.  There will be hours and days when Florence will come into your atmosphere, bringing her own state of loneliness and longing to be felt by you; days when you must both mourn that the veil is dropped between you; but above all, the sun of spiritual light will shine gloriously.”

“Then you think that they suffer after they have gone?”

“I certainly do.  It is perfectly reasonable to suppose that they mourn for us as we for them.  Reverse the case.  Suppose that you were where she now is, and that she were here, and that you made strong efforts to approach her, and having thus far succeeded, endeavored to impress her with the fact of your presence.  If she recognized you, would you not feel rejoiced? and if she did not, would you not feel grieved, and all the more so, if instead of honestly admitting self-evident facts, she sought to evade them?”

“True; all that would be most natural.  I have never thought of it in that light before.  Do you think I may sometime feel and know that Florence is with me?”

“I trust, indeed, I know you will.  In some unexpected manner some human instrument may be used to give your mind the test it needs.”

“Will it be real to me?  O, tell me if I shall feel and know that it is really her?”

“If genuine there will be no doubt in your mind.  All this is something which must be experienced, and not told.  A thrill will come to your heart and brain which you have never felt before, when you first realize the possibility of our departed friends communing with us, and this because the truth will be more intimately related to your inner self than anything you have before felt.  Dawn is too much affected by the death of Florence, yet, to see her; too much in her own state.  When she returns to herself-becomes disengaged from the anxious condition of Florence, she will see and bring her in communion with you; yet a stranger can do better, and give your mind more satisfactory evidence of her ability to speak to you.”