ing like the stream into every
channel that is open, withholding nothing, retaining nothing. I see," he
added, "very great and beautiful things ahead of you, and very sad and
painful things as well. But you are close to the light, and it is
breaking all about you with a splendour which you cannot guess."

He rose up, he took my hand in his own and laid the other on my brow,
and I felt his heart go out to mine and gather me to him, as a child is
gathered to a father's arms. And then he went silently and lightly upon
his way.

XVI

The time moved on quietly enough in the land of delight. I made
acquaintance with quite a number of the soft-voiced contented folk.
Sometimes it interested me to see the change coming upon one or another,
a wonder or a desire that made them sit withdrawn and abstracted, and
breaking with a sort of effort out of the dreamful mood. Then they would
leave us, sometimes quite suddenly, sometimes with courteous adieus.
New-comers, too, kept arriving, to be made pleasantly at home. I found
myself seeing more of Cynthia. She was much with Lucius, and they seemed
as gay as ever, but I saw that she was sometimes puzzled. She said to me
one day as we sat together, "I wish you would tell me what this is all
about? I do not want to change it, and I am very happy, but isn't it all
rather pointless? I believe you have some secret you are keeping from
me." She was sitting close beside me, like a child, resting her head on
my arm, and she took my hand in both of hers.

"No," I said, "I am keeping nothing from you, pretty child! I could not
explain to you what is in my mind, and it would spoil your pleasure if I
could. It is all right, and you will see in good time."

"I hate to be put off like that," she said. "You are not really
interested in me; and you do not trust me; you do not care about the
things I care about, and if you are so superior, you ought to explain to
me why."

"Well," I said, "I will try to explain. Do you ever remember having been
very happy in a place, and having been obliged to leave it, always
hoping to return; and then when you did return, finding that, though
nothing was changed, you were yourself changed, and could not, even if
you would, have taken up the old life again?"

"Yes," said Cynthia, musing, "I remember that sort of thing happening
once, about a house where I stayed as a child. It seemed so stupid and
dull when I went back that I wondered how I could ever hav