ambitions are to find those whom I have lost, and in whatever life
I live to be of use to others. However, as I gather that the exalted
condition to which Jorsen alludes is thousands of ages off for any of
us, and may after all mean something quite different to what it seems to
mean, the thought of it does not trouble me over much. Meanwhile what I
seek is the vision of those I love.

Now I have this power. Occasionally when I am in deep sleep some part of
me seems to leave my body and to be transported quite outside the world.
It travels, as though I were already dead, to the Gates that all who
live must pass, and there takes its stand, on the Great White Road,
watching those who have been called speed by continually. Those upon the
earth know nothing of that Road. Blinded by their pomps and vanities,
they cannot see, they will not see it always growing towards the feet of
every one of them. But I see and know. Of course you who read will say
that this is but a dream of mine, and it may be. Still, if so, it is a
very wonderful dream, and except for the change of the passing people,
or rather of those who have been people, always very much the same.

There, straight as the way of the Spirit and broad as the breast of
Death, is the Great White Road running I know not whence, up to those
Gates that gleam like moonlight and are higher than the Alps. There
beyond the Gates the radiant Presences move mysteriously. Thence at the
appointed time the Voice cries and they are opened with a sound like to
that of deepest thunder, or sometimes are burned away, while from the
Glory that lies beyond flow the sweet-faced welcomers to greet those for
whom they wait, bearing the cups from which they give to drink. I do
not know what is in the cups, whether it be a draught of Lethe or
some baptismal water of new birth, or both; but always the thirsting,
world-worn soul appears to change, and then as it were to be lost in the