The wall of the city was very low, a child could see over it,
for it was made only of precious stones, which are never large.
The gate of the city was not like a gate a all, for it was not
barred with iron or wood, but only a single pearl, softly
gleaming,
marked the place where the wall ended and the entrance lay open.

A person stood there whose face was bright and grave, and whose
robe
was like the flower of the lily, not a woven fabric, but a living
texture.
"Come in," he said to the company of travelers; "you are at
your journey's end, and your mansions are ready for you."

John Weightman hesitated, for he was troubled by a doubt.
Suppose that he was not really, like his companions, at his
journey's end,
but only transported for a little while out of the regular course
of
his life into this mysterious experience? Suppose that, after
all,
he had not really passed through the door of death, like these
others,
but only through the door of dreams, and was walking in a vision,

a living man among the blessed dead. Would it be right for him
to go
with them into the heavenly city? Would it not be a deception,
a desecration, a deep and unforgivable offense? The strange,