She raised one hand and pressed the stiff
fingers against the glass. They were growing very stiff. She tried to
speak to it, but she would never speak again. Only the wonderful yearning
light was in the eyes still. The body was dead now, but the soul, clear
and unclouded, looked forth.
Then slowly, without a sound, the beautiful eyes closed. The dead face
that the glass reflected was a thing of marvelous beauty and tranquillity.
The Grey Dawn crept in over it and saw it lying there.
Had she found what she sought for--something to worship? Had she ceased
from being? Who shall tell us? There is a veil of terrible mist over the
face of the Hereafter.
Chapter 2.XIII. Dreams.
"Tell me what a soul desires, and I will tell you what it is." So runs the
phrase.
"Tell me what a man dreams, and I will tell you what he loves." That also
has its truth.
For, ever from the earliest childhood to the latest age, day by day, and
step by step, the busy waking life is followed and reflected by the life of
dreams--waking dreams, sleeping dreams. Weird, misty, and distorted as the
inverted image of a mirage, or a figure seen through the mountain mist,
they are still the reflections of a reality.
On the night when Gregory told his story Waldo sat alone before the fire,
his untasted supper before him.
Pages:
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386