The Prince is ever in them,
The daylight is serene;
The pastures of the blessed
Are decked in glorious sheen.
There is the throne of David;
And there, from care released,
The shout of them that triumph,
The song of them that feast.
And they, who with their Leader,
Have conquered in the fight,
Forever and forever,
Are clad in robes of white.
That was the only way she had at all definitely imagined heaven. And who, believing that—if one's father were anywhere, he was there—would assume to communicate with him in such a realm as that and try to bring back care to him so happily released from care?
Her father—this letter said—was anxious about affairs here. Once he had replied "somewhat impatiently." And "earlier" something had seemed sufficient to him "but not now."
Those who spoke of him mentioned, not her heaven, but "the other side of the veil." What sort of place was that, and where? Not distant, but all about us, with a disturbed spirit likely to appear through the veil with warnings like the ghost of Hamlet's father? No; that was medieval and absurd superstition. Yet:
"They heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day," so the Bible itself said in Genesis. "And behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain, from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent;
