Enter Two Children. These play in the
brook, and gather the shells. They are
robed in short, childish garments—a
little frock, a little dress, both white,
and each clasped by a small, golden
cross.

First Child (a boy, four or five years old). I never saw such pretty shells in that other place we lived. They took me to the seaside summers, but there weren’t any there that began to be so pretty.

Second Child (a girl). I never played with any shells before. We lived in a street. It was dark and dirty. I never saw the sea till I came here.

First Child. I never saw you in that other place, did I?

Second Child. No. You wouldn’t have played with me there.

First Child. I like you here—don’t I?

Second Child. And I like you. I like you best of anybody I’ve seen in this pretty country.

First Child. Do you like roses? Or don’t you care for anything but shells?

Second Child (adoringly). I like roses, if you like roses.

(They leave the brook, and gather roses, pelting each other with them, and laughing merrily.)

(First Child tosses a rose over the brook.)

(Second Child picks a bluebell, and puts it to her lips.)

First Child. No. They’re not to eat. They’re to listen to. See! I’ll ring mine. Hark! (He rings the bluebell. It gives out a musical tintinnabulation.) Now, you hark again. I never heard a bluebell ring in that other place, did you?

Second Child. I never saw one on our street.... Oh, mine rings, too!... Say! Are these angels? I never saw an angel either, in our street.

(The Children wander away and mingle with the groups of spirits. They ring the bluebells as they go. The tintinnabulation is drowned in orchestral music, which can be heard from a distance. The theme is from Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony. Certain of the spirits listen attentively, and move towards the music. Certain others continue to talk happily, and stir among the trees.)

Enter Dr. Thorne. (Walks slowly and
alone. He is robed still in purple,
with a tunic of white showing at the
throat. He looks pallid and harassed.
He stands for a time apart,
keenly observant of the scene and of
the people, then sinks in thought. He
speaks.)

Dr. Thorne. Children here, too?

(He looks wistfully at the two children, who are playing together at a distance from him. He picks up the rose which the little boy had tossed over the brook; puts it to his face; speaks.)

Dr. Thorne. What a perfume the flowers have in this country! This seems to be a rose, yet it is not a rose. You might call it the soul of a rose. Exquisite, whatever it is. Some one has dropped this one. There is personality clinging to it. Curious! It is as though I clasped a little hand when I touch it.

(He sighs; walks to and fro thoughtfully; does not throw away the rose, but cherishes it. Groups of spirits pass and repass. Some of them smile at him kindly, but he does not return the smile. No one addresses him.)

Dr. Thorne. I have done my share of traveling in my day, but I must say I never was in a land that seems to me so foreign as this. Nothing looks natural. I seem to have no acquaintances. Apparently nobody knows me. I have no introductions. I am afraid I have got here without letters of credit. (Breaks off.) That was a mistake. I never did such an ignorant thing before. I must say it is an attractive country, too. Everything shows a high degree of civilization, and the beauty of the place is unsurpassed. But it does not appeal to me. (He shakes his head.) ... I am too homesick.... If Helen were here, I could enjoy it.

(He strolls about without aim or interest. Happy spirits pass and repass.)

Enter a man-spirit of impressive and
commanding appearance. His costume
bears a certain vague resemblance
to the dress of a gentleman and scholar
of the Court of Charles I. of England.
A cloak of the tint of the dead
oak-leaf is clasped across his breast
by a golden cross. He regards Dr.
Thorne with a piercing but kindly
look. He speaks with a fine and
courtly manner, dating from a bygone
age.

The Man-Spirit. I read thee for a stranger here.

Dr. Thorne (bitterly). A stranger in a strange place am I, indeed. You are the first inhabitant of this country who has troubled himself to speak to me. Thank you for your politeness, sir.

The Man-Spirit. I was commanded. These (waving his hand toward the groups of spirits) were not.

Dr. Thorne. You look like a person more fitted to give commands than to receive them. I fail to understand that word—commanded. I am—at least, I was—a sovereign citizen of America. I was not born or trained a subject.

The Man-Spirit (smiling). And I was subject of an English sovereign—in fact, an officer of the royal court.

Dr. Thorne (without smiling). And this nation? Is it an autocratic monarchy you have here? What is your political system?

The Man-Spirit. It is a simple one—a pure theocracy.

Dr. Thorne (indifferently). Oh, theocracy? That is a system into which I have never studied. I have been a busy man. I was a physician— (Abruptly.) Would you favor me with your name?

The Man-Spirit. I was a healer of the sick in my time. My name was— (Whispers his name.)

Dr. Thorne (starts with pleased surprise). The great Harvey? And you discovered the circulation of the blood? How wonderful! Why, I thought you had been mould and clover these two hundred and fifty years! It never occurred to me that you were alive.... What an extraordinary fact!

Harvey (turns away wearily). I did not think to find your education so limited. I understood you to be a man of superior powers.

Dr. Thorne (humbly). Don’t leave me, Doctor Harvey! I am the most unhappy man in this most happy country.

Harvey (slowly). Then you did not bring with you the materials of happiness. What had you? What were your possessions in the life yonder?

Dr. Thorne (solemnly, but still bitterly). Love, happiness, home, health, prosperity, fame, wealth, ambition. None of them did I bring with me. I have lost them all upon the way.

Harvey. Was there by chance nothing else?

Dr. Thorne. Nothing more, unless you count a little incidental usefulness.

Harvey. Plainly, you are not in a normal condition.

Dr. Thorne (hastily). I am perfectly well.

Harvey. You are sick of soul. You are not in health of spirit. You are out of harmony with your atmosphere. Do you wish me to take the case?

Dr. Thorne. Take the case, Doctor Harvey. Cure me of my nostalgia. Show me how to become a citizen of this foreign land.

Harvey. You know what it means to be a patient.

Dr. Thorne (grimly). I can think of no worse fate; but I’ll make the best of it.

Harvey (smiling kindly). I will undertake the case. At evening inquire your way to my dwelling. (Moves away; returns; hesitates; lingers; speaks impulsively.) Concerning the latest attainments in science on the planet Earth—they have the keenest interest for me. You have so many advantages—facilities that we never had. (He sighs wistfully.) I am told that your therapeutics are really wonderful. And the advances in surgery? Did you find them as beautiful as they are said to be?

Enter a newly arrived woman-spirit. She
is still pale, but has a happy expression.
She recognizes Dr. Thorne;
cries eagerly.

Woman-Spirit. Doctor! Doctor Thorne!

Harvey. Here comes some of your incidental usefulness. That is a good symptom. (He moves away, still smiling.)

[Exit Harvey.

Dr. Thorne. Why, Mrs. True! (Grasps her hand joyfully.) You are the first person I have seen—the first one I knew! But (reflecting) what has happened to you? How did you get here?

Mrs. True. I died yesterday.... I knew I should see you, Doctor. (Calmly.) I counted on that.

Dr. Thorne (starting back). Did they—you don’t mean to say they really operated on you? You were convalescent!

Mrs. True (laughing outright). Yes, in a week after you were killed. Dr. Carver vivisected guinea-pigs all that week to keep in practice. I died under the knife.... I wish you’d seen their faces!

Dr. Thorne (eagerly). What did they find—anything to justify the butchery?

Mrs. True. Of course not. Didn’t you say there wasn’t?

Dr. Thorne (gratefully). You always were a loyal patient—better than I deserved.

Mrs. True. You always were a kind doctor—better than I deserved.

Dr. Thorne. And they slaughtered you in my hospital!

Mrs. True (hurrying on). Have you seen my husband? Do you know where my mother is? I lost a baby twenty years ago. I want to see the little thing. And oh? when can I see—?

(She breaks off, with a devout expression, and moves away; joins the upper group of spirits. Two of these can be seen to meet and embrace her, and lead her on.)

[Vanish Mrs. True.

Enter Jerry, the loafer, hurriedly and
stumbling. His robe is of dull blue,
something in the fashion of a smock-frock,
or butcher’s blouse.

Jerry (staring about him stupidly, and with a kind of social embarrassment, as if he had been suddenly introduced into a drawing-room). Div-niver a cint in me pocket, and me hoofin’ it in this quaer counthree. (Scratches his head, and mutters unintelligibly.) ... I wondher where the ... sinsible saints I’m at.

Dr. Thorne (steps forward; speaks). Why, Jerry! How are you, Jerry? (Holds out his hand heartily.)

Jerry (staring). Sinsible saints, and silly sinners! Doctor Thorne?... Why, I thought you was dead. Hilloa, Doctor! (Grasps the doctor’s hand, and shakes it violently. Then meditatively.) Ye took a t’orn out av me eye onct, and div-niver a cint did ye charrge for ’t.

Dr. Thorne. What are you doing here, Jerry? How did you get here?

Jerry. I was knocked down by a blame bicycle underneat’ a murdherin’ trolley car. Nixt I know I don’t know nothin’, an’ now, behold me, I’m let loose loafin’ in this quaer counthree.

Dr. Thorne. Not drunk, were you, Jerry?

Jerry (shaking his head gravely). I shwore off, Doctor. I shwore off t’ree years ago. Me little gurrl she give me no repose till I shwore off.... She died jist av the hospittle, did me little gurrl.... Say, Doctor, do ye know what’s the thramp laws in this counthree?

Enter Norah hastily.

Norah. Doctor—Doctor Thorne? Have you seen—oh, there he is! There’s me father! Why, Father, Father dear! (Caresses Jerry affectionately.)

Jerry. Och! wisha, wisha! Norah, me darlint! (Returns her caresses tenderly.) What luck for the likes of us arrivin’ emigrants thegither in this agra-able counthree!

Norah (puts her arm in his). Come yonder wid me, Father. (Draws him away.)

Jerry (looks back over his shoulder at Dr. Thorne). Is it to confession we do be goin’, Norah?—the wan av us arrivin’ be way of a murdherin’ doctor, and the wan be way av a murdherin’ trolley! I’m thinkin’, sir, it’s niver a cint to choose bechune.

[Exeunt Jerry and Norah.

Dr. Thorne (watches their departure drearily; turns, and walks feebly towards the brook; speaks). Now I think of it, I have not tasted food or drink since I have been in this place. I believe I am downright faint.

(Drinks water from the brook in the palm of his hand; sinks beneath the low boughs of a tree on thick moss. His head falls upon his arm. From a distance, and from a height, slowly moving downwards, over the beautiful landscape, robed in cream white, and unseen by Dr. Thorne,

Enter Mrs. Fayth.

As she approaches, it can be seen that her robe also is clasped across the breast by a little golden cross.)

Spirits beyond (softly chant the Te Deum).

(Midway of the landscape, and playing merrily,)

Enter the Two Children.

First Child (running to Mrs. Fayth). Oh, here I am! (He clasps her hand; clings to her affectionately.)

Mrs. Fayth (to Second Child). Run yonder and play, Maidie.

(Second Child obeys prettily, and joins the spirits above. Mrs. Fayth and the First Child move slowly to the front of the landscape.)

The Child. See that poor man under the tree! I think he’s a hungry man—don’t you?

(He breaks away from Mrs. Fayth, and runs to Dr. Thorne; examines the exhausted man attentively, bending forward with his hands on his little knees. Mrs. Fayth advances slowly, with her mysterious smile; she does not speak.)

The Child (touches Dr. Thorne timidly; after a silence speaks, ceremoniously). Would you like a peach, or do you like plums instead? I’ll pick you one.

Dr. Thorne (arousing). Who spoke to me? Oh, it is a child. (Sinks back feebly.)

(The Child gathers some fruit from the trees, and brings water from the brook in the cup of an annunciation lily, which holds the liquid perfectly; offers the food and drink to the exhausted man. Mrs. Fayth, still unseen by Dr. Thorne, stands quite near, nodding and smiling at The Child. The Child looks to her for encouragement and direction.)

Dr. Thorne (reviving). Thank you, my little man. (Leans on his elbow, and gazes steadfastly at The Child; rises to a sitting posture.)

The Child (creeps nearer to Dr. Thorne, and, after a moment’s hesitation, throws his little length full on the moss at the man’s feet, and scrutinizes him seriously, putting his chin into his hand as he does so; speaks sympathetically). Do you feel better now?

Dr. Thorne. Much better. You’re a thoughtful little fellow.

The Child. Our breakfasts grow all cooked here. This is a nice country.

Dr. Thorne (still gazing steadfastly at The Child). Where is your mother, my lad?

The Child. I don’t know. I lost her on the way, somewhere.

Dr. Thorne. And your father? What has become of your father?

The Child. Oh, he’s dead. He got dead before I came here.

Mrs. Fayth (moves within Dr. Thorne’s range of vision; speaks quietly). Good-morning, Doctor. (Smiles brightly.)

Dr. Thorne (springs to his feet; cries out). Mary Fayth! I thought you had forgotten me! I have—needed you.

(The Child rises; leans up against Dr. Thorne’s knee confidingly.)

Mrs. Fayth. I have often needed you, Doctor. And you never failed me once.

Dr. Thorne (impetuously). I thought you would have come before. I looked for you—

Mrs. Fayth. As I have often looked for you. But I was not commanded to meet you—till this very minute.

Dr. Thorne. Commanded? Commanded? There is that singular phrase again. Have you seen Helen? (Quickly.)

Mrs. Fayth (shakes her head). Not yet.

Dr. Thorne. Have you seen your husband? Did they let you go to Fred?

Mrs. Fayth (contentedly). Oh, many times.

The Child (interrupting). He doesn’t kiss me! (Puts up his lips in a grieved, babyish fashion.)

Mrs. Fayth (very quietly). Doctor, don’t hurt that child’s feelings. He’s yours.

Dr. Thorne (gasping). I don’t understand you!

Mrs. Fayth. I have had the care of him since he came here. He’s kept me busy, I can tell you. I am to give him over to you now.... See how he’s grown! No wonder you didn’t know him.

Dr. Thorne (in great agitation). Did Laddie die?

Mrs. Fayth (solemnly). Yes, Laddie died.

Dr. Thorne. Did something really ail him that night—that most miserable night?... Oh, poor Helen! Poor, poor Helen! (His face falls into his hands. His frame shakes with soundless, tearless sobs.)

Laddie (creeps into his lap; lays his head on his father’s neck). Hilloa, Papa! (Pats his father on the cheek.)

[Exit Mrs. Fayth silently, with emotion.

Dr. Thorne (raises his head, showing his stormy face. Clasps the child, hesitatingly at first, then passionately; holds him off at arm’s length; scans him closely; draws him back; kisses his little hands, then his face; clasps him again). My little son! Papa’s little boy! My son! My little son! (Smiles naturally for the first time since he died; then with sudden recollection, he cries out.) Oh, what will your poor mother do without you?

Laddie. You homesick, Papa?

Dr. Thorne. My little son! (Caresses the child with a touching timidity, broken by bursts of wild affection. The child responds warmly, laughing for joy.)

End of Scene I.

SCENE II.

Enter Dr. Thorne. (He paces the sands, mournfully gazing about him at the lonely scenery. He murmurs, then raises his voice rhythmically, like one who quotes from an uncertain memory.)

Dr. Thorne.

Where did I get that? Oh, I remember. I had not thought of it for years. That woman used to quote it to me. She was the most consistent infidel I ever knew. She shied at nothing; took the consequences, both living and dying.... A shocking death, though! I suppose the boy is all right with Mrs. Fayth and that little chum of his. If it hadn’t been for that discussion with Harvey I shouldn’t have left him. Wishing seems to be doing, in this singular state of existence. A man makes a simple astronomical inquiry about a planet, and forthwith he is in the planet. Remarkable! (Breaks off; continues.) How magnificent Helen was about that affair. If she had doubted me—but she never did. She was superb.

Enter an Evil Spirit. Her garments
are of flame color. Her hair has the
same tint. On her forehead blazes a
single scarlet star. Her appearance
is queenly and confident. As she reveals
her face, it is seen to be that of
the woman whose wraith has followed
Dr. Thorne at intervals ever since
the hour of his death. Her robe,
which is opaque, reveals her bare
arms and feet, but covers her shoulders
and bosom with a certain modesty,
which is felt at once to be not
wholly natural to the woman. Each
footprint that she makes upon the
sand is marked by a small jet of
flame, which flares after she has
passed, and dies down quickly. Dr.
Thorne stares at the woman in evident
and not well-pleased perplexity.

The Woman (speaks). So? Am I forgotten on first principles? It is some years since we had the pleasure of meeting.

Dr. Thorne (coldly). I begin to recognize you, Madam.

Cleo. You did not know it, but I have given you several other opportunities to do so since you died.

Dr. Thorne. I should think that quite possible—and characteristic.

Cleo (wincing). Your tongue has not lost its edge! I’m afraid they have not made a hopeful convert of you in yonder pious country.... Confess, you’re bored past endurance with the whole thing? (She draws a little nearer to him, but is so adroit as not to touch him. She gives him only her eyes, and these embrace him outright.)

Dr. Thorne (regarding her steadily). Did I ever choose you for a confidante? (He steps back.)

Cleo (persistently). Come, don’t be cross! Tell me, then, why have you fled the first circles of celestial society—to mope out here alone? Oh, you can’t deceive me. I understand—I always understood you better than any other woman living. (In a low tone.) Your whole nature is in antagonism with the very basis of existence in the state you’re plunged into. What’s death? Nothing but a footstep. You’ve taken it. But you’re the man you were.... Pouf! That’s death. (Snaps her fingers.) I’d wager a waltz and a kiss that you are ennuyÉ to madness over there.... Admit it? (Tenderly.) Admit it! (Imperiously.)

Dr. Thorne (uneasily). I don’t profess to be thoroughly acclimated. But I assure you I did not come here to sulk. On the contrary, I was absorbingly interested in a scientific discussion with a distinguished man. It was an astronomical point. I came here to verify it. I return at once. (Moves away.)

Cleo. Don’t be in such a blatant hurry! It’s not polite. (Pouting.) I’ve studied a little astronomy myself of late.... Come! I can converse about planets—if you will. Was it Neptune or Venus you undertook to investigate?

Dr. Thorne (not without interest). I contended that it was Neptune—before I came.

Cleo. And now?

Dr. Thorne (gloomily gazing at her). I am inclined to think it is Venus.

(Cleo laughs softly.)

(Dr. Thorne does not smile.)

Cleo (abruptly). Esmerald Thorne, do you know what has happened? You are in an uninhabited world—with me. You are in a dead world, burnt to ashes, burnt to slag and lava by its own fires. You are alone in it—alone with me.... (In a changed voice.) And I meant you should be. Oh, I’ve dreamed of this for years. I’ve held my breath for it, perished for it.... Now, here we are—we two outcasts from the religious idea—we who always rebelled against it, by the very bone and tissue of our being.... We two (tenderly) alone, at last. (She advances towards him, and for the first time touches him, gently laying her hand upon his shoulder.)

Dr. Thorne (not rudely, but positively, removes her hand, stepping back quickly, so that her arm falls heavily by her side). Woman! Woman, what are you? A spirit damned, or a spirit deluded?... I confess I never knew. And I don’t know any better now.

Cleo (more modestly lifts his hand to her cheek; speaks gently). Do you know any better now?

Dr. Thorne (withdrawing his hand). My wife always said you were half angel, half the other thing. She pitied you, I think. I confess I never did, very much.

Cleo (wretchedly). I never asked for the pity of Helen Thorne!

Dr. Thorne (firmly). You might well receive it, Madam. It would not harm you any.

Cleo (suddenly). Oh, everybody knew you were an irreproachable husband. A blameless physician, of course. But we have changed all that. You are quite free now—as free as I am, for that matter....

Dr. Thorne (nobly). Yes; I am free, as you say. I am free to mourn my wife, and love her ... and await her presence ... which has a value to me that I do not ... I cannot discuss—with you.

Cleo (rebuffed, but gentle and sad). I beg your pardon, Dr. Thorne.

Dr. Thorne (takes a few steps nearer her). And I yours ... if I have wronged you.

Cleo (softly). You feel so sure of her, then? Helen is so attractive! These spiritual women always are—up to a certain point.... Life is a long wait, brutally tedious. You know as well as I do how many—Now, there is Dr. Gazell. A very consolable widower.

Dr. Thorne (proudly). Oh, that was a blunt stroke. Gazell? If Gazell were a dog by which my wife might track her way to me through the mystery of death ... she might have some use for him ... hardly otherwise. I gave you credit for some wit, Cleo.

Cleo. I own the illustration was defective. But there are a plenty better. There are gentler men than you. For my part, I don’t mind your attacks of the devil. I never did. I’d take your cruelty to have your tenderness—any day. But Mrs. Thorne is sensitive to kindness. She likes the even disposition, the patient, model man. After all, there are a good many of them.

Dr. Thorne (lifting his head). I am not afraid.

Cleo (turning away). And you? She is a young woman. It may be years....

Dr. Thorne (coldly). You will have to excuse me. I left some one.... I may be missed. I have ties which even you would respect, Madam. I must return whence I came. (He moves away.)

(Cleo hides her face in her hands; is heard to weep.)

Dr. Thorne (steps back). Do you want my pity?

Cleo (murmurs). Alone—in a desert world—we two—at last. Oh, you don’t know the alphabet of happiness! You have everything to learn ... from me. And we shall never be like this again!

Dr. Thorne (frankly). I hope not.

Cleo (suddenly starting, paces the ashes; throws her arms above her head). I always said you had a Nero in you.... Oh, I understood you—I! But you.... It never occurred to you, I suppose, that you died on my very day? I had been dead three years that night.

Dr. Thorne (more gently). What did you do it for, Cleo? You know I warned you about that habit. You know I took the laudanum away from you.

Cleo. But you could not cork up the Limited Express—could you?

Dr. Thorne. It was a dreadful death! Tell me, how do you fare? Where do you live? Do you suffer? What is your lot?

Cleo (with sudden reserve, and not without dignity) We suicides have our own fate. We bear it. We do not reveal it.

Dr. Thorne (uncomfortably). Well—I must bid you good-morning.

Cleo (savagely). At least, I gained something—if I lose all. Of course, it never dawned on you that this was all my scheme?

Dr. Thorne (in dismay). Your scheme?

Cleo (past control, raves). Oh, I had watched my chance for years. I knew you—your mad moods, your black temper.... Yourself slew yourself, Esmerald Thorne. Your own weakness gave me my opportunity. I waited for my moment. I sat in the buggy beside you.... I sometimes did that when your evil had you. (I couldn’t get there when you were good, you know.) I tried to take the reins. I tried to get the whip—I could not do it. I meant to hit the horse—my arm was held. (There are always so many of these holy busybodies about—angels and messengers of sanctity—to interfere with one!) Oh, then I sprang out—over the wheel into the street. You didn’t see me, but Donna did. When she shied I clung to her bit. And then she bolted.... It was a very simple thing.

(Dr. Thorne recoiling slowly, an expression of cold horror chills his features.)

Cleo (still raving). Yes, I’ve murdered you—if you will—and Mary Fayth besides. And I’ve broken Helen’s heart. Do you suppose that counts? Who counts? Nobody on earth, or in heaven, or in hell. I’ve got you away from your wife.... And in earth, or in heaven, or in hell, I’ll have you yet....

Dr. Thorne (throwing out his hands; holds her off with evidences of unbearable repulsion; speaks with difficulty). And I pitied you a moment since. Now I cannot scorn you. It is too fine a word.

Cleo (more calmly). I can abide my time.

Enter Laddie, running rapidly.

Laddie. Papa, Papa! Oh, I missed you, Papa!

Cleo (starting). I did not know the child was dead! (Looks disconcerted.)

Dr. Thorne (catches the child, and holds him to his heart; speaks). No. You only knew you left him fatherless. (With much agitation, continues.) How did you get here, Laddie? How did you find the way? Papa hadn’t forgotten his little boy. I was coming right back to you, my son.

Laddie (mysteriously; looking about). A man with wings brought me. We flowed over.... He is waiting out there to take us back. (Observing Cleo, Laddie slips down to the ground, and backs up against his father’s knees; points at the woman.) Papa, I don’t like that lady.

Dr. Thorne (cruelly). My son, I cannot deny that I respect your taste. (Clasps the boy to his heart again; then puts him down once more, and, with a fine motion, holds the child at arm’s-length between himself and the woman.)

Cleo (averting her face). I perceive the importance of the obstacle. I admit ... that to love a man who is the father of another woman’s child—

Dr. Thorne (interrupting). And who loves the mother of his child—

(Cleo sobs.)

Dr. Thorne. Come, Laddie. (He does not glance at the woman again.)

[Exeunt Dr. Thorne and Laddie.

Cleo (yearning after him; stretches out her arms, but does not follow; calls mournfully). Oh, if you would come back a minute—only a minute!... In heaven, or earth, or hell, I’d never ask anything of you again. A minute, a minute!

(Dr. Thorne does not return, and does not reply. Cleo is left alone in the dead world. She falls flat upon the slag and ashes.)

End of Scene II.

SCENE III.

(Spirits pass and repass in the distance.)

Enter Dr. Thorne and Harvey, conversing
in low tones.

Enter Norah and Jerry.

Jerry. The brim of the avenin’ to yez, Doctor! Och! but this is a foine counthree now.

Norah (happily). Me father is getting acquainted here.

Jerry. I’m about to discover where the ... angels ... I’m at.

Dr. Thorne (smiling). You’ve got ahead of me then, Jerry.

[Exeunt Norah and Jerry.

Dr. Thorne (to Harvey). And why, for instance, was I directed or allowed to take that astronomical tour before I had investigated my immediate surroundings?

Harvey. A patient may ask questions. In your experience, did you always answer them?

Enter Laddie (running after his father,
whose hand he hurries to catch and
clasp).

Dr. Thorne (pointing to the architecture beyond). And those public buildings yonder—what do you call them?

Harvey. Those are our institutions of education and of mercy. They are a great pleasure to us. We have our temples, colleges, music halls, libraries, schools of science, hospitals, galleries of art, as a matter of course. What did you suppose we did with our intellects and our leisure?

Dr. Thorne. I never supposed anything on the subject. I never thought about it.

Harvey. Precisely. You are very ignorant—for a man of your gifts. Now, our hospitals—

Dr. Thorne. Pray do not mock me, Doctor Harvey. If you had a hospital, you could find me something to do. The humiliating idleness of this place crushes me. I seem to be of no more use here than a paralytic patient was in my own charity ward at home. I am become of no more social importance than the janitor or the steward used to be. I am of no consequence. I am not in demand. No person desires my services. The canker of idleness eats upon me. Here, in this world of spirits, I am an unscientific, useless fellow. If you have anything whatever in the shape of a hospital, I beg you to find me employment in it. At least, I could keep the temperature charts, if I am not to be trusted with any cases.

Harvey (smiling sadly). Your cure proceeds but slowly, my patient. I did not think you were a dull man. Must you be taught the elements? Our sick are not of the body, but are sick of soul. Our patients are chiefly from among the newly arrived who are at odds with the spirit of the place; hence, they suffer discomfort. Can you administer holiness to a will and heart diseased?

(Dr. Thorne shakes his head; bows it in bitter silence. He stands lost in thought. As he does so, sunset deepens to twilight on the land. Laddie drops his father’s hand; plays among the annunciation lilies. Harvey, with a courtly salute, retires. He does not speak further to Dr. Thorne.)

[Exit Harvey.

Laddie (breaks one of the tall lily-stalks—gently, for a boy. As he does so, the cup opens, and a little white bird flies out, hangs poised in the air a moment). Oh, the beautiful! (Catches the bird, which he handles tenderly.) Papa! Papa! I went to pick a lily, and I picked a bird! Oh, Papa, what a pretty country!

Dr. Thorne (smiling in spite of himself). Come here, my lad. (Caresses the child with pathetic gratitude.) If it were not for you, little man— (Bows his face on the child’s head.)

(The twilight changes slowly to moonlight.)

Laddie (restlessly). I must go find Maidie and show her my white bird. They didn’t grow in her street.

Dr. Thorne (anxiously). Don’t go far, my child. You might lose your way.

Laddie (with a peal of laughter). We never lose our way in this nice country.

[Exit Laddie.

(Dr. Thorne paces the path desolately; does not speak. As the moonlight brightens, groups of spirits stroll among the fields and trees. These walk often two by two. They are, and yet are not, like earthly lovers. They murmur softly, and express delight to be together; and some of them go hand in hand, or with arms intertwined. But a beautiful reserve pervades their behavior. Faintly from beyond arise the strains of the Serenade of Schubert’s, played with extreme softness and refinement, but with a depth of emotion which carries the heart before it. Dr. Thorne listens to the music. The sails quiver on the distant water, and faint figures can be seen moving on the beach. The passion flowers salute each other. The great Serenade plays on.)

Enter Mrs. Fayth. (Her smiling face
is grave, or even a little sad. She is
moved by the music, and seems to sway
towards it. Dr. Thorne holds out
his hand to her. Mrs. Fayth extends
her own, confidingly. The two stand
listening to the music, like comrades
bereft of other ties; on her face rests
a frank, affectionate expression; on
his a desolate leaning towards the
nearest sympathy. They glance at
the spirits who are strolling two by
two through the celestial evening. The
music is suspended.)

Dr. Thorne (moodily). This foreign country would be lonelier without you, Mary Fayth.

Mrs. Fayth (frankly). Of course it would!... It is a lovely thing that we died together.... It has been a comfort to me, Doctor.

Dr. Thorne. And to me.... Helen would be pleased.... Helen might like to have it so, I’ve thought ... if she thinks of me at all.

Mrs. Fayth (quickly). She thinks of nothing but you ... all the time.

Dr. Thorne (eagerly). How do you know? Have you been there? Can you see Helen?

Mrs. Fayth (mysteriously smiling). Don’t ask me!...

Dr. Thorne (imperiously). When was it? How did you get there? How did she look?—Is she well?—Did she look very wretched? Were her lips pale? Or only her cheeks? Does she weep much? Can she sleep?—Is she living quite alone?—Oh, how does she bear it? (He trips upon his words, and stops abruptly.)

(A strain from the Serenade breathes, and sighs away.)

Mrs. Fayth (gently but evasively). My poor friend!

(Dr. Thorne and Mrs. Fayth unclasp hands, and stand side by side, silently in the moonlight. A certain remoteness overtakes their manner. Each is drowned in thought in which the other has no share. The Serenade is heard again. Mrs. Fayth, with a mute, sweet gesture of farewell, glides gravely away. Dr. Thorne does not seek to detain her.)

[Exit Mrs. Fayth.

(The Serenade plays on steadily.)

Dr. Thorne (puts his hands to his ears, as if to shut out the music, which falls very faintly as he speaks). Between herself and me the awful gates of death have shut. To pass them—though I would die again to do it—to pass them for one hour, for one moment, for love’s sake, for grief’s sake—or for pity’s own—I am forbidden. (Breaks off.) ... Her forgiveness! Her forgiveness! The longing for it gnaws upon me.... Oh, her unfathomable tenderness—passing the tenderness of women!—It would lean out and take me back to itself, as her white arms took me to her heart—when I came home—after a hard day’s work—tired out.... Helen! Helen!

(The music strengthens as he ceases to speak; then faints again.)

Dr. Thorne (moans). For very longing for her, I would fain forget her.... No! No! No! (Starts.) Never would I forget her! To all eternity would I think of her and suffer, if I must, because I think of her.... I ... love her ... so.

(The Serenade ceases slowly, and sighs away.)

(Dr. Thorne stands with the moonlight on his face. It is rapt, and carries a certain majesty.)

(Spirits pass. Some of them glance at him, with wonder and respect. No one addresses him. He stands like a statue of strong and noble solitude. He does not perceive the presence of any spirit.)

Enter The Child. (Runs to his father.
Springs into his arms.)

The Child. Lonesome, Papa? I will comfort you.

Dr. Thorne (clasps the boy, who seems half-overcome with sleepiness. Lays him gently on the grass). Go to sleep, my child. It is growing late. (Laddie drops asleep.)

Dr. Thorne (continues to speak, for his emotion bears him on). I did not expect to live when I was dead. I lived—I died—and yet I live. I did not think that love would live when breath was gone. I loved—I blasphemed love—I breathed my last—and still I love. If this be true—anything may be true— (breaks off). God! It may be years before I can see her face—twenty years—thirty— (groaning)—Whence came the love of man and woman, that it should outlive the laws of Nature, and defy dissolution, and outlast the body, and curse or bless the spirit? If love can live, anything can live. Since this is—anything may be— (Falters; glances about; finds himself quite alone with the sleeping child; lifts his eyes to the sky, and then his hands; stands irresolute. Then slowly, reluctantly, still standing manfully upright, with a touching embarrassment.)

Dr. Thorne (prays). Almighty God!—if there be a God Almighty. Reveal thyself to my immortal soul!—if I have a soul immortal.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

(The moonlight fades into a dark midnight. The figure of Dr. Thorne disappears in it.)

(Dawn comes on subtly, but at once, for the nights and days of Paradise are not governed by the laws of earth, and day breaks splendidly over the heavenly world.)

Enter the Two Children (playing with
flowers, and tasting fruit).

Laddie. How did you like coasting down that waterfall on rainbows?

Maidie. I want that butterfly—with fire on it.

Laddie. Don’t be stupid, because you’re dead! That is a flower. (Picks a flower in the shape of a butterfly with jeweled wings; hands it to the girl.) No, it won’t fly. It isn’t grown up yet.

Maidie. Shall I fly when I’m grown up? I’ve got wings, too. (Shows her feet, on the heels of which a tiny pair of wings appear.)

Laddie (jealously). I didn’t know you had them. That’s why you can jump over things and get ahead of me.

Enter Dr. Thorne and Mrs. Fayth.

Mrs. Fayth. Doctor, I don’t know what ails me. Perhaps it’s a symptom—a moral symptom—but I can’t help thinking of Cleo. I wonder—

Dr. Thorne (with reserve). I do not care to speak of the woman.

Mrs. Fayth. You are right. But I did not mean to be wrong. (I think it must have been a symptom.) It’s the first time I’ve felt nervous since I died. I beg your pardon.

Laddie (running to meet them). Papa! Maidie’s got wings on her feet. Why don’t I have some? Papa! Papa! Come into your new house. It grew up out of the woods—like—like acorns.

Dr. Thorne (addressing Mrs. Fayth, looking towards the cottage). It is a shelter for the child, at all events. Quite in accordance with my present social position in this place—a mere cottage—but it makes him a home, poor little fellow!

Mrs. Fayth. It’s just what Helen would like. She hates palaces.

Dr. Thorne (starts as if stabbed; makes no reply).

Laddie (suddenly). Oh, Papa, Mrs. Fayth’s got wings on her feet, too. Her dress covers them up. I like her better than I did that lady you were so cross to.

Mrs. Fayth (laughing). I am so well!—oh, so well! I am a-shamed to be so happy! I walk on air. I float on clouds. I move on waves. All nature seems to be under my feet, and her glory in my heart.... Poor Doctor! (Breaks off and looks at him with quick sympathy.) And yet I tru-ly think you im-prove in spirits. You don’t look armed to the teeth, all the time—now.

Dr. Thorne (smiles cheerfully). A man must respect law, whatever state he is in. I would conform to the customs of this place, so far as I can. I would do this for the boy’s sake, at least. I don’t wish to be a disgrace to him in this system of things.

Mrs. Fayth. Does Doctor Harvey treat you by scien-ti-fic ev-olu-tion? That’s a man’s way. It’s a pretty slow one.

Laddie (insistently). Papa, she has got wings on her feet.

Mrs. Fayth (blushing). Go away and play, children.

(The children run to the cottage. The little girl bounds before, with a light, flying motion. They play in the cottage at “keeping house,” running in and out.)

(Suddenly a change takes place upon the landscape. Its colors soften and melt. Flying tints, like light broken through many prisms, float upon the white flowers, rest upon the annunciation lilies, and delicately touch the white robe of Mrs. Fayth. In fact, the whole atmosphere takes on the appearance of a vast rainbow. Music from the temple sounds clearly.)

Voices (can be heard singing):—

Mrs. Fayth (starts with a listening, devout expression). Do you hear that?... Oh, watch, Doctor! Watch for what will happen!

(Spirits can be seen suddenly moving from all directions. They hurry, and exhibit signs of joyful excitement. The singing continues; repeats:—

(Now over the brilliant landscape falls a long, sharp, strange shadow. It is seen to be the shadow of a mighty cross, which, if raised upright, would seem to reach from earth to heaven. The children run back from the cottage.)

Laddie. Papa! who is worship? Is it a kind of game? Papa, what is Lord? Is it people’s mother? What is it for?

Dr. Thorne (with embarrassment). Alas, my boy, your father is not a learned man.

Laddie (imperiously). Teach me that pretty song! I cannot sing it. All the other children can—

Voices (chanting):—

Dr. Thorne (sadly). My son, I cannot sing it, either.

Laddie (with reproach, and with a certain dignity). Father, I wish you were a learned man. (Walks away from his father; goes up the path. The little girl follows him.)

(The evidences of public excitement increase visibly. From every part of the country spirits can be seen moving, with signs of acute pleasure. Some hasten towards the Temple; others gather in groups in the roads and paths; all present a reverent but joyful aspect.)

Mrs. Fayth (gliding away). I cannot lose a moment. (Beckons to Dr. Thorne as she moves out of the grove and up the path. Calls.) Doctor! Doctor!

Dr. Thorne (shakes his head). I do not understand.

(Mrs. Fayth remains still full in sight, standing as if to watch a pageant or to see the prominent figure of a procession.)

(Laddie runs on beyond her, watching eagerly; shades his eyes with his little hand.)

(Maidie flits along with him.)

(Dr. Thorne stands quite alone. He, too, shades his eyes with his hand, and scans the horizon and the foreground closely.)

(The shadow of the great cross falls upon him where he stands.)

(It can now be seen that the happy people beyond give evidence of greeting some one who is passing by them. Some weep for joy; others laugh for rapture. Some stretch their arms out as if in ecstasy. Some throw themselves on the ground in humility. Some seem to be entreating a benediction. But the figure of Him who passes by them remains invisible. The excitement now increases, and extends along the group of spirits until it reaches those in the foreground. Here can now be seen and recognized some old patients of Dr. Thorne’s—Mrs. True, Norah, and Jerry.)

(These wear the golden cross upon the breast. Harvey enters unnoticed, and mingles with the crowd. He stands behind Mrs. Fayth, who remains rapt and mute, full in the light. She has forgotten Dr. Thorne.)

(Dr. Thorne watches the scene with pathetic perplexity. He does not speak.)

(The chanting continues, and the strain swells louder.)

(Now the Invisible Figure makes the impression of having reached the nearer groups.)

(Norah falls upon her knees.)

(Jerry salutes respectfully, as if he recognized a dear and honored employer whom he wished to serve and please.)

(Mrs. True reaches out her arms with reverent longing.)

(Maidie kisses her little hands to the Unseen.)

(Harvey stands devoutly with bowed head.)

(Mrs. Fayth holds out both hands lovingly. Then she sinks to the ground upon her knees and makes the delicate motion of one who puts to her lips the edge of the robe of the Unseen Passer. Her whole expression is rapturous.)

(Laddie, breaking away from his elders, now boldly steps out into the path. He looks up; shades his eyes, as if from a brilliance; then confidingly puts out his hand, as if he placed it in an Unseen Hand, and walks along, smiling like a child who is led by One whom he trusts and loves.)

Dr. Thorne (in distress). I see nothing!—No one! I am blind—blind!

(Chanting.)

(Dr. Thorne covers his face. The music ceases. The air grows dimmer than twilight. But there is no moon, nor is it dark. The groups in the foreground move away in quiet happiness, like those who have had their heart’s wish granted.)

(Harvey, Mrs. True, Norah, Jerry, and Maidie mingle with the other spirits.)

(Mrs. Fayth rises from her knees; melts slowly in the dusk.)

(Laddie runs into the grove, and disappears in the gloom. He acts as if looking for some one.)

Dr. Thorne (remains alone. He paces the grove, irresolute—then suddenly turns in the direction whence the Invisible had come; walks uncertainly up the path; searches, as if for signs of the Passer; examines the grass, the shrubbery; touches the flowers, to see if they had bent beneath His feet; stoops; examines the pathway reverently; speaks in a low tone). The footprint! I have found the footprint! There was One passing. And He stepped here. But I was blind! (Hesitates; lifts his face to the sky; drops it to his breast; murmurs inarticulately. Then slowly—as if half his nature battled with the other half, and every fibre of his being yielded hard—he drops upon his knees. He remains silent in this posture.)

(From the depth of the grove behind Dr. Thorne’s cottage,)

Enter Cleo stealthily. (She watches
Dr. Thorne with an expression in
which love, fear, reproach, and astonishment
contend. She makes no
sign, nor in any way is her presence
revealed to Dr. Thorne. Taking a
few steps forward, she touches the
shadow of one arm of the mighty
cross. Cleo retreats in confusion.)
Enter The Child (running down the
path). Papa! Papa! (Points up the
path. Beckons to his father. Points
ecstatically.) Look, look, Papa!

(Dr. Thorne arises to his full height; looks where The Child points.)

(Slowly and solemnly,)

Enter Jesus the Christ. (Our Lord
appears as a majestic figure, melting
of outline, divine of mien, with arms
outstretched in benediction.)

(Cleo at sight of the Sacred Figure wrings her hands in anguish, and makes as if she would flee; but remains gazing at the Vision, as if compelled by forces unknown to her. As the Vision draws nearer, Cleo drops upon her face. Her long hair covers her. All her contours blur into the increasing shadow. The scene is now quite dark, except for the light which falls from the Person of Our Lord. This shall fully reveal The Man, who falls at the feet of the Vision, and The Child, who stands entranced, with his little arms around his father’s neck.)

Dr. Thorne (lifts his hands rapturously). I was blind—But, now, I see! (Accepts and remains in the attitude of worship as manfully as he had refused it.)

(The Sacred Figure stirs, as if to meet the kneeling man; slowly dims, melts, and fades; vanishes.)

End of Scene III.

SCENE IV.

Enter Azrael, Angel of Death. (The
Angel is immovable of manner. But
an obvious tenderness wars with the
solemnity of his expression. He looks
neither to the right nor to the left, but
glides over the rough path steadily;
his robe, which is of dull, white gauze,
conceals his feet; his wings are
folded; he carries no flaming sword,
nor any weapon.)

(After a moment’s interval, following The Angel quickly,)

Enter Dr. Thorne (his robe is much
paler, but still of a purplish tint. It
is now clasped by the golden cross.
He cries aloud). Azrael!

Echo (from the caverns). Azrael!

(Azrael makes no reply. Moves on steadily.)

Dr. Thorne (in a lower voice). Azrael, Angel of Death!

(Azrael turns his head, but without pausing.)

Dr. Thorne. In the name of Him who strove with thee, and conquered thee—whither goest thou, Azrael?

(Azrael pauses. He looks over his folded wing at the man; regards him steadily; does not speak; moves on again. Dr. Thorne utters an inarticulate exclamation. He follows the Angel. Halfway down the path he stops, perplexed. His expression is anxious. Azrael moves on. He does not again look back; glides to the edge of the ravine. The scene darkens. The Angel does not pause, but can be seen to cross the gulf fleetly. He does not fly, but appears to tread the air across the space.)

[Vanish Azrael.

(Dr. Thorne stands alone in the gloom. His eyes are fixed upon the spot where the Angel disappeared. A low, rushing sound, as of water, can now be heard.)

Dr. Thorne (shudders; speaks). It seems like an underground river. Horrible! (Calls.) Azrael! Tell me thine errand—in this fearful place!

(Azrael neither replies nor appears. It grows very dark. The perspective of the Heavenly City fades. The rushing of the river can be heard. Now, through the unearthly gloom, upon the hither side of the gulf, slowly grow to form the outlines of a Woman. She stretches her arms out with the motion of one feeling her way. She moves with difficulty, tripping sometimes, but regaining her footing bravely. Her robe is light. Her face cannot be recognized.)

Dr. Thorne (on whose sensitive countenance falls the only light in the scene, shows an unaccountable emotion. He murmurs). It is a woman—alone—exhausted ... and a stranger. As I serve her, so may God send some soul of fire and snow to serve my dear wife—in her hour of mortal need! (He advances towards the woman with a chivalrous sympathy.)

(The Woman moves on steadily; weakens; reels, but holds her ground. It can now be seen that her eyes are closed. She falls. She does not cry out.)

Dr. Thorne. How brave you are! Keep courage. (Catches her before she touches the ground. She lies in his arms in a faint or collapse.)

(Dr. Thorne carries her along midway of the scene.)

(It lightens slowly. As it does so, it can be seen that the woman is young and fair, and fine of nature. Her robe is of dazzling white; it has a surface like that of satin-finished gauze, which reflects all the light there is. Her long, dark hair is disordered, and falls about her. She is pale. Her eyes do not open. She lies helplessly in his arms.)

(Dr. Thorne lays her gently against the trunk of a dead tree, which has fallen across a hollow in the cliff, and which rests so as to support the woman. He seats himself beside her; bends to examine her face.)

Dr. Thorne (recognizes the face of the woman; cries in a voice that rings through the hills). Helen!

The Echo (takes up the cry). Helen!

Helen Thorne (is half-conscious and confused; does not open her eyes; murmurs). Will it last long?

Dr. Thorne (clasps her reverently. As his arms touch her, they can be seen to tremble. He moans). My—poor—wife!

Helen Thorne (still lying with closed eyes; murmurs, but more distinctly). I said I would die two deaths for him.... Are they over, yet?... if that would help him any ... where he had gone. (Opens her eyes, but they see nothing. Dreamily and solemnly, as if repeating a familiar prayer, she speaks softly.) Great God! I will die ten deaths for him ... and count myself a happy woman ... if that will make it any easier for him.

Dr. Thorne (groaning, puts his wife gently from him, as if she were a being too sacred for his touch. Turns his face from her; speaks). I am not fit!... I dare not touch her!

Helen Thorne (praying). Dear Lord! I would die for him ... as Thou didst die for us.... If that could be.... Dear Lord!

Dr. Thorne (utterly broken). I am a sinful man, O God! (Removes from her, and stands with his face in his hands.)

Helen Thorne (recovering full consciousness, and with it sudden strength, lifts herself to a sitting posture; looks about her; half rises. Suddenly she recognizes her husband, where he stands aloof. She cries plaintively). Esmerald?—Isn’t it over yet? Esmerald! Have you forgotten me? Don’t you care for me any more?... (piteously). Oh, Death! I did not think that thou wouldst crucify me ... so!

(Sudden darkness falls. When it passes, the gulf, the dark mountain, the underground river, the ravines are gone. Slow and sweet light returns softly. It is the setting of the sun. The perspective of the Heavenly City and spirits are as before. The grim scenery surrounding the mouth of the River of Death has given place to a fair meadow, sunny and open. Some of the boulders remain, and the path which cut through the ravine now runs across the field. Clumps of trees and thick shrubs break the space between the foreground and the distant spirits, and the path turns a curve through a thicket of roses. Lilies as before grow higher than any other flowers, and nearer to the eye.)

Helen Thorne (stands, tall and glorious. Faint color has returned to her pale face. Her expression is radiant. She looks downward and stretches down her hands; speaks, very softly). Dear!

Dr. Thorne (prostrate at his wife’s feet, speaks). Forgive! Forgive me, Helen.

(Helen Thorne smiles divinely. Stoops to lift him up.)

(Dr. Thorne resists her still, and, fallen at her feet, he draws the hem of her robe slowly to his lips. Then he lays his cheek upon her feet before he reverently kisses them.)

Dr. Thorne. I said ... oh, I have broken my heart for what I said ... to you!

Helen Thorne (reaches down her beautiful arms to him. Draws him up). Why, my poor Love! My dear Love! Did you think I would remember that?

(Dr. Thorne arises. Holds out his shaking arms; does not speak.)

(Helen Thorne in silence creeps to him, not royally, like a wife who was wronged; but like the sweetest woman in the world, who loves him because she cannot help it, and would not if she could. Her face falls upon his breast.)

(Dr. Thorne, as if she were a goddess, still not daring to caress her, lays his cheek upon her soft hair. Before her face, but not touching it, he delicately curves his hand as if he enclosed a sacred flame from the rude air.)

Helen Thorne (lifts her face to his. Her eyes, all womanly, turn to him in Paradise as they did on earth. She speaks softly). I am in Heaven ... after all!

Dr. Thorne. And I have never been there ... until now! (He clasps her slowly to his heart; turns her face back upon his arm and reverently looks at it; scans it adoringly; humbly crying.) Helen! Helen!

(Dr. Thorne kisses his wife’s brow—eyes—cheek—and then her lips. Suddenly, around the curve in the path where the thicket of roses blossoms, running rapidly,)

Enter Laddie (carrying a stalk of the
white lilies. He cries). Papa! Papa!
I’ve lost you, Papa! (The child runs
down the path. Closely following
him, fair and gentle, brightly smiling,)
Enter Mrs. Fayth. (She draws back
quickly; utters an inarticulate exclamation;
extends her hands in an impulsive
gesture of delight. But she
withdraws and puts her finger on her
lips. She retreats without speaking.)

(Mrs. Fayth, hidden for a moment behind the thicket of roses, reappears beyond with the other spirits. The group of spirits stirs upward in the bright scenery.)

(Dr. Thorne and his Wife, having seen or heard nothing, still stand rapt, embracing solemnly.)

Laddie (stops on the path, irresolute. Frowns a little in pretty, childish perplexity; makes as if he would go back; looks at the two again. Then suddenly darts forward; cries). Why, that’s my Mamma! (Springs to her; clutches at her white robe, pulls at her hand.)

Helen Thorne (recognizes the child instantly, despite his larger stature; she cries out). Why, my little boy! Mother’s baby boy! Oh! you again, ... you, too! My little, little boy. (Catches him to her; kisses him wildly; holds him, and releases him, and holds him again. Murmurs half-intelligible words brokenly.) Mother’s baby!... Mother’s beauty!... Oh, mamma missed you, sonny-boy—

(Dr. Thorne does not speak. His face is shining. He holds his wife within his arms as if he feared to lose her if he loosened them.)

(The Child, laughing softly, fondles his mother. The three stand clinging together rapturously.)

Voices (from beyond the rose thicket chant).

(Chorus of spirits from the region of the Temple on the Heavenly Hill very softly sing.)

(As they sing, the fair country brightens subtly, and all the heavenly scene is radiant. The moving groups of spirits seem to be joining in the song.)

(Dr. Thorne and his Wife, turning, look into one another’s faces. They do not speak.)

(Now, delicately, it shall be seen to darken on the bright land, and a holy half-light touches every outline.)

(The Child leaves his parents. He walks a few steps away, shading his eyes with one hand, as if he saw invisible glory; in the other hand he carries the annunciation lily.)

(Vaguely at first, then more definitely; slowly and solemnly,)

Enter JESUS the CHRIST.

(The Sacred Figure advances towards the Man and Woman, who are unconscious of the approach. Its hands are stretched in benediction. It stands for a moment, mutely, and unseen by them.)

(The Boy runs towards it fearlessly; seats himself upon the meadow-grass at the feet of the Figure.)

(The Sacred Figure stirs towards the child. All the light in the scene now falls from the Figure.)

(The Man, the Woman, and the Child receive its full effulgence.)

Voices from Beyond (sing).

(The Man and the Woman now perceive the Sacred Figure. They fall to their knees. The man’s arm still encircles his wife. They bow their heads before the Divine Presence.)

(The Child, with the lifted lily, remains at the feet of the Christ.)

Voices from Beyond (repeat).

(The Sacred Figure dims and slowly fades. With it disappears the stalk of annunciation lilies. The light returns softly upon the celestial scenery.)

(The Sacred Figure vanishes.)

(The Man, the Woman, and Child stay gazing after it.)

(Now a mist breathes upon the Heavenly City and the sunny country. All the outlines of the happy scenery blur and faint.)

(The groups of spirits grow dim.)

(Distant music softly sustains the strains of the song; but without words.)

(And now the golden mist slowly envelops the Man, the Woman, and the Child, who remain for a moment before the eyes—a vision—solemn, tender, and half unreal.)

(The music continues very faintly. The strain slowly ceases.)

(The mist dulls, deepens, and thickens, till it rolls like an impenetrable curtain before the vanished scene.)

End of the Drama.

The Riverside Press
Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.

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