"Do not fear, you will not forget, but after a time your affections will strengthen. Our sister has much to learn, and needlessly distresses herself."

The years pa.s.sed, and I became accustomed to my new life, when a message came for me. The palpitating waves repeated, "Mother! mother! mother!"

It was my youngest daughter, who had grown almost to womanhood. I knew by her cry that she was in mortal pain, and yielding to the attractions I was soon with her. She was motionless on a couch, surrounded by her relatives, and her cousin held her cold hand. "It is all over," they said, in tears.

"Can it be?" I eagerly asked. "Oh! can it be that the time has already come when I am to have one of my children with me? To have one of them who will know me, and converse with me? Oh! heavenly Father, I thank thee for this answer to my incessant prayer."

Then I looked closely and saw the great transition was approaching. I could not a.s.sist; I could only stand by her side and receive her. She seemed asleep, which I fully understood from my own experience. Slowly the spirit left the insensible body, and as I saw my spirit-daughter recovering her senses, I drew near and whispered, "Claribel." She opened wide her blue eyes, and I knew she saw me. I threw my arms around her, and wept for gladness. "Darling Claribel, do you not know me, your mother?"

"Dearest mama," she said with her old smile, "know you? Why, you are younger, but the same. Where have you been so long? We thought you dead?"

"Do you not know?" I asked, apprehensively.

"Know? What mean you?"

"Yes, I am what they call dead; and were you not likewise, you could not see me!"

"I dead?" she replied, with a laugh which recalled her childhood, throwing her arms gracefully over her head. "Look you, mama, how far from it I am. I have been wretchedly sick, and in such fiery pain; but it is over, and I am perfectly well."

We drew to one side, and she then turning saw the friends, weeping, and her body on the couch.

"Why do they weep?" she asked, "and who is that on the couch? I am confused, for it is like another self."

"They are weeping for your loss, and that form on the couch is yours."

"Am I to return to it? What am I to do, dear mother?"

"No, you will need it no more. Your life is hereafter with me and the angels."

"What mean you, mother, by saying you and I are dead?"

"That we are, my child. That is what people call dead."

"I do not understand," she replied musingly. Then going to her cousin's side, who was still holding her physical hand, she said, "Cousin Frank, what are you weeping for? Do you not see how well I am?"

He did not hear her words, and she spoke again, playfully patting his face. Then she saw that she was no longer able to be heard or felt, and threw herself into my arms, weeping violently. I soothed her as best I could, upbraiding myself with foolishly teaching her the ways of our life before she was able to receive. "My child," I said, "how glad I am to have you again with me. They will all come to us sooner or later. Now we will go to my home, for it is not well for you to remain. After a time you will be instructed in these mysteries."

I attempted to go, but found that although I could depart alone, I could not bear Claribel with me. I had not perfected myself sufficiently in the method, and her attraction was toward that spot alone. I prayed for the coming of a companion, and soon there came one to my aid. On either side we threw our arms around her, and then our wills bore her onward with us.

When we reached our home, and the loving companions came with welcome to Claribel, and she saw beauty and perfection everywhere, and felt how happy her coming had made me, tears trembled in her eyes as she said: "It is wonderful, mother, and I ought not to regret, but you know earth-life was sweet to me, and I had plans for the future."

"Yes, my child," I replied, "the days were too short, and your friends were devoted, but your plans are thwarted, yet you must know that all is well." Her towering air-castles had vanished; but soon she had far greater sources of happiness in the group of beautiful children she instructed.

I said I would not visit earth unless called, for the pain was greater than the pleasure. Even when called, I refused. "My husband," they said, "was about to wed again."

"It is well," I replied; "his is the rough, earth-life, hard to walk alone. If he so desires, I ought to be willing."

Yet I was not willing or I should have gone. It would have seemed strange, indeed, to have visited my old home, and found another in my place. It would have emphasized my death to me. Thinking the matter over, I said:

"No! I will not go. Let them be happy. I will not enter their sphere."

When, years after, the message came that he was soon to join me, I hastened to his side. When I reached him he had already nearly pa.s.sed through the transition, and had regained his spiritual perceptions. As I came to him he at once knew me, and opened wide his arms to receive me.

The years were blotted out. We were again to each other all that we had ever been. By intuition he knew that he had met the change, and the first words he said to me were:

"I am so glad the weary watch is over. I knew heaven was not so large I could not find you, but I did not expect so soon to meet you. It was like you to come, and I ought to have expected it."

"I heard your call," I replied, "and heaven is not so wide that I could not come. Now we must go, and I will take you to the most beautiful place you ever saw in dreams. You must not remain to witness the proceedings further."

He smiled at my words: "Why, you talk as if there was something terrible about death. It has been the most pleasant pa.s.sage in my life. I have suffered a great deal in its approach, but when it came it brought only joy. When I saw you, I was so pleased, my clay-lips uttered my thoughts, the last words they ever gave. Now it is done, I must stay till it is over. I want to see how the relatives and friends act, and hear what they say. You know it will be strange to hear one's own funeral sermon."

As he would not go, I remained with him, and entering again into the earth-sphere, suffered from the contact. My husband was greatly interested in the ceremonies, and when they were over, he said:

"I am glad the old aching body has at last gone to its final rest. The children were grieved, and ought to know how they misunderstand. Perhaps I can tell them some time. Hearts do not break with grief, else mine would have broken. Come, now, my new-found wife, I will go where you wish."

I need not repeat the story of the journey or describe the meeting with our Claribel. Her father was of so happy a disposition, that he at once a.s.similated his surroundings, and became one with his companions.

"I have worked and struggled along," he said, "having little time to think, and I am as ignorant as a savage. I desire at once to commence gaining knowledge. How am I to proceed?"

We all laughed at his eagerness, and one said:

"There is time enough; you must first rest and recover strength."

"Rest! I was never stronger, and I am anxious for exertion. I feel mentally starved and crave thought food."

"You will find no difficult task. To desire is to have, and you will soon become in sympathy with the thought-atmosphere of our home."

Then one of our number, who was a poet, superior to us all, said he had had a singular and painful experience, and we demanded to hear it.

THE POET'S STORY.--I had been enthroned, and as I came up the pathway leading to this eminence, I met a boisterous throng of people. Strange faces they had, and yet they were familiar. I looked closely, and imagine my surprise when I found they belonged to me. They were the thoughts I had expressed in my earth-life. Some were dark, repulsive and inexpressibly ugly, while others were exquisitely beautiful. What a horde they were, and though some were pleasing, the greater proportion caused my cheeks to blush with shame.

"Father! father!" they called, rushing toward me.

"Away!" I cried. "I know you not!"

"Then we will follow you. We belong to you, and wherever you go we will go. We will not desert you."

"If this be so," I cried in despair, "then I am burdened beyond endurance, and immortality becomes a curse. If I must remain with this throng of tormentors, reminding me continually of early follies, then extinction is preferable."

What shall I do with this miscreant crowd, deformed and rude? I can not take them home to my companions. If these are embodiments of my earthly thoughts, how they would scorn me. If this is to be my retinue, then I must seek a new home where I am unknown. I must cast aside the companionship of this company. My punishment is terrible. I threw myself down in a paroxysm of grief and remorse. An angel came by, and pausing said:

"Would you escape from your thraldom?"

"Escape!" I cried. "Can I escape?"

"Do you not see that the most repulsive of these spectres are fashioned of the thoughts which are of yourself, recording your former vanity, pride, uncharity, selfishness and forgetfulness of others? See you that lovely being representing a deed of self-sacrifice?"