love is shining. Hazel bows down, her whole soul overwhelmed with
reverent awe. Then her hand is taken and held with a touch which thrills
her with exquisite rapture, and a voice in her ears says--

"Come, see with Me My garden."

And the air, which is filled with light, grows buoyant, and, while her
hand is still clasped by the Divine Guide, she is wafted upwards.

Stretched out below, the hills and vales of the earth are one vast
garden. All is indistinct at first; expanses of misty colour and tint;
but by degrees the scene resolves itself into more definite form. The
whole is intersected and watered with streams, more or less clear and
pure, which arise and are replenished from a bright vapour, the Spirit
of Life, which shines, issuing forth from an empty tomb in a rock in the
East. There are banks of wild violets and primroses, and woods filled
with anemones and hyacinths--myriads of beautiful flowers, reaching over
all the world.

Hazel has hardly taken in anything of the wonder of the scene, when her
attention is attracted by an arch of white mist above the earth, and, as
it seems, but a few paces from her. Gradually this path of mist grows
clear as crystal, and the colours glancing in it take shape, and form a
clear, transparent picture.

A cornfield on a summer evening, filled with blossoms of poppies and
corn-flowers. A wild storm sweeps over the field; the corn is broken
down; the flowers are crushed beneath its weight, draggled and withered.
A poppy, torn up by its roots, is whirled through the air.