They found the Book of Life, but they remembered not that the Father had
told them the Word was His.

For the thread of _Identity_, on which are strung the pearls of
_Memory_, in the passage through chaos had snapped in twain!

* * * * *

Like the silver light through the storm clouds flitting over the fair
face of the moon, gleam the antenatal splendors through the gloom of the
earth life.

As Anselm wonderingly turned the pages of the Book of Life, strange
memories awoke within him. So inextricably were the dreams of his past
woven with the burning visions of the Prophets, that the darkness of
Revelation, like the heaven vault at midnight, was illumined by the
light of distant worlds; his own vague reminiscences supplying the inner
sense of the inspired but mystic leaves. What wonder that he loved the
Book, when in its descriptions of the life to _come_, he felt the
history of the life already _past_; and through its sternest
threatenings, like the rainbow girdling storm clouds, shone the promise
of a blessed future!

He spent the hours of exile in a constant effort to commune with the
Father; in humble prayer and supplication for strength to resist the
power of sin. For he feared the Evil which lurked in the land. He
examined the springs of his own actions, analyzed his motives, and
tortured himself lest any of the evils denounced in the Book should lurk
in the folds of his own soul. In contemplating the awful justice of the
Father, he sometimes forgot that He is Love. He feared close commune