How then am I able to tell it to the world as now?  I can easily explain the seeming inconsistency.  It is not merely that I am speaking, as I have said before, from behind a screen, or as clothed in the coat of darkness of an anonymous writer; but I find that, as I come nearer and nearer to the invisible world, all my brothers and sisters grow dearer and dearer to me; I feel towards them more and more as the children of my Father in heaven; and although some of them are good children and some naughty children, some very lovable and some hard to love, yet I never feel that they are below me, or unfit to listen to the story even of my love, if they only care to listen; and if they do not care, there is no harm done, except they read it.  Even should they, and then scoff at what seemed and seems to me the precious story, I have these defences:  first, that it was not for them that I cast forth my precious pearls, for precious to me is the significance of every fact in my history—­not that it is mine, for I have only been as clay in the hands of the potter, but that it is God’s, who made my history as it seemed and was good to Him; and second, that even should they trample them under their feet, they cannot well get at me to rend me.  And more, the nearer I come to the region beyond, the more I feel that in that land a man needs not shrink from uttering his deepest thoughts, inasmuch as he that understands them not will not therefore revile him.—­“But you are not there yet.  You are in the land in which the brother speaketh evil of that which he understandeth not.”—­True, friend; too true.  But I only do as Dr Donne did in writing that poem in his sickness, when he thought he was near to the world of which we speak:  I rehearse now, that I may find it easier then.

   “Since I am coming to that holy room,
      Where, with the choir of saints for evermore,
    I shall be made thy music, as I come,
      I tune the instrument here at the door;
      And what I must do then, think here before.”

When Rogers had thanked God, he rose, took my hand, and said:—­

“Mr Walton, you will preach now.  I thank God for the good we shall all get from the trouble you have gone through.”

“I ought to be the better for it,” I answered.

“You will be the better for it,” he returned.  “I believe I’ve allus been the better for any trouble as ever I had to go through with.  I couldn’t quite say the same for every bit of good luck I had; leastways, I considei trouble the best luck a man can have.  And I wish you a good night, sir.  Thank God! again.”

“But, Rogers, you don’t mean it would be good for us to have bad luck always, do you?  You shouldn’t be pleased at what’s come to me now, in that case.”

“No, sir, sartinly not.”

“How can you say, then, that bad luck is the best luck?”

“I mean the bad luck that comes to us—­not the bad luck that doesn’t come.  But you’re right, sir.  Good luck or bad luck’s both best when he sends ’em, as He allus does.  In fac’, sir, there is no bad luck but what comes out o’ the man hisself.  The rest’s all good.”