pulsing of the tide of the Divine. She read, choosing a verse
here and there, and I listened with absorption.

Suppose I had been wrong in believing that sorrow is the keynote
of life; that pain is the road of ascent, if road there be; that
an implacable Nature and that only, presides over all our pitiful
struggles and seekings and writes a black "Finis" to the
holograph of our existence?

What then? What was she teaching me? Was she the Interpreter of a
Beauty eternal in the heavens, and reflected like a broken prism
in the beauty that walked visible beside me? So I listened like a
child to an unknown language, yet ventured my protest.

"In India, in this wonderful country where men have time and will
for speculation such thoughts may be natural. Can they be found
in the West?"

"This is from the West - might not Kabir himself have said it?
Certainly he would have felt it. 'Happy is he who seeks not to
understand the Mystery of God, but who, merging his spirit into
Thine, sings to Thy face, 0 Lord, like a harp, understanding how
difficult it is to know - how easy to love Thee.' We debate and
argue and the Vision passes us by. We try to prove it, and kill
it in the laboratory of our minds, when on the altar of our
souls it will dwell for ever."

Silence - and I pondered. Finally she laid the book aside, and
repeated from memory and in a tone of perfect music; "Kabir says,
'I shall go to the House of my Lord with my Love at my side; then