"And now you have attained your object, what is the use of it?" said
Don Aloysius.

The priest was pacing slowly up and down the old half-ruined
cloister of an old half-ruined monastery, and beside his stately,
black-robed figure moved the small aerial form of Morgana, clad in
summer garments of pure white, her golden head uncovered to the
strong Sicilian sunshine which came piercing in sword-like rays
through the arches of the cloister, and filtered among the
clustering leaves which hung in cool twining bunches from every
crumbling grey pillar of stone.

"What is the use of it?" he repeated, his calm eyes resting gravely
on the little creature gliding sylph-like beside him. "Suppose your
invention out-reaped every limit of known possibility--suppose your
air-ship to be invulnerable, and surpassing in speed and safety
everything ever experienced,--suppose it could travel to heights
unimaginable, what then? Suppose even that you could alight on
another star--another world than this--what purpose is served?--what
peace is gained?--what happens?"

Morgana stopped abruptly in her walk beside him.

"I have not worked for peace or happiness,"--she said and there was
a thrill of sadness in her voice--"because to my mind neither peace
nor happiness exist. From all we can see, and from the little we can
learn, I think the Maker of the universe never meant us to be happy
or peaceful. All Nature is at strife with itself, incessantly
labouring for such attainment as can hardly be won,--all things seem
to be haunted by fear and sorrow. And yet it seems to me that there