divine already; you at once suspect the name I mean. I hear you say
to yourself with a smile--"So, after all. . . !"

Please, wait a moment, and listen closely now; for, in reply to your
suspicion, I can give neither full affirmation or full denial. Yet an
answer of a certain kind is ready: I have stated my firm conviction
that the dead do not return; I do not modify it one iota; but I
mentioned a moment ago another conviction that is mine because I know.
So now let me supplement these two statements with a third: the dead,
though they do not return, are active; and those who lived beauty in
their lives are--benevolently active.

This may prepare you for a further assurance, yet one less easy to
express intelligibly. Be patient while I make the difficult attempt.

The origin of the wisdom that now seeks to shape and guide my life
through Beauty is, indeed, not Marion, but a power that stands behind
her, and through which, with which, the energy of her being acts. It
stood behind her while she lived. It stands behind not only her, but
equally behind all those peerless, exquisite manifestations of self-less
love that give bountifully of their best without hope or expectation of
reward in kind. No human love of this description, though it find no
object to receive it, nor one single flower that "wastes" its sweetness
on the desert air, but acknowledges this inexhaustible and spendthrift
source. Its evidence lies strewn so thick, so prodigally, about our
world, that not one among us, whatever his surroundings and conditions,
but sooner or later must encounter at least one marvellous instance of
its uplifting presence. Some at once acknowledge the exquisite flash and
are aware; others remain blind and deaf, till some experience, probably
of pain, shall have prepared and sensitized their receptive quality. To