And now the last morning had come with golden sun - shot mists
rolling upward to disclose the far white billows of the sea of
eternity, the mountains awaking to their enormous joys. The trees
were dripping glory to the steaming earth; it flowed like rivers
into their most secret recesses, moss and flower, fern and leaf
floated upon the waves of light revealing their inmost soul in
triumphant gladness. Far off across the valleys a cuckoo was
calling - the very voice of spring, and in the green world above
my head a bird sang, a feathered joy, so clear, so passionate
that I thought the great summer morning listened in silence to
his rapture ringing through the woods. I waited until the
Jubilate was ended and then went in to bid good-bye to my
friends.

Mrs. Ingmar bid me the kindest farewell and I left her serene in
the negation of all beauty, all hope save that of a world run on
the lines of a model municipality, disease a memory, sewerage,
light and air systems perfected, the charted brain sending its
costless messages to the outer parts of the habitable globe, and
at least a hundred years of life with a decent cremation at the
end of it assured to every eugenically born citizen. No more. But
I have long ceased to regret that others use their own eyes
whether clear or dim. Better the merest glimmer of light
perceived thus than the hearsay of the revelations of others. And
by the broken fragments of a bewildered hope a man shall
eventually reach the goal and rejoice in that dawn where the
morning stars sing together and the sons of God shout for joy. It
must come, for it is already here.

Brynhild walked with me through the long glades in the fresh thin