rged themselves at last with a titanic leap. All this enacted
itself before me, while life itself flew like a pulse from system to
system, never diminished, never increased, withdrawn from one to settle
on another. All this I saw and knew.

III

I thought I could never be satiated by this infinite procession of
wonders. But at last there rose in my mind, like a rising star, the need
to be alone no longer. I was passing through a kind of heavenly infancy;
and just as a day comes when a child puts out a hand with a conscious
intention, not merely a blind groping, but with a need to clasp and
caress, or answers a smile by a smile, a word by a purposeful cry, so in
a moment I was aware of some one with me and near me, with a heart and a
nature that leaned to mine and had need of me, as I of him. I knew him
to be one who had lived as I had lived, on the earth that was
ours,--lived many lives, indeed; and it was then first that I became
aware that I had myself lived many lives too. My human life, which I had
last left, was the fullest and clearest of all my existences; but they
had been many and various, though always progressive. I must not now
tell of the strange life histories that had enfolded me--they had risen
in dignity and worth from a life far back, unimaginably elementary and
instinctive; but I felt in a moment that my new friend's life had been
far richer and more perfect than my own, though I saw that there were
still experiences ahead of both of us; but not yet. I may describe his
presence in human similitudes, a presence perfectly defined, though
apprehended with no human sight. He bore a name which described
something clear, strong, full of force, and yet gentle of access, like
water. It was just that; a thing perfectly pure and pervading, which
could be stained and troubled, and yet could retain no defilement or
agitation; which a child could scatter and divide, and yet was
absolutely powerful and insuperable. I will call him Amroth. Him, I say,
because though there was no thought of sex left in my consciousness,
his was a courageous, inventive, masterful spirit, which gave rather
than received, and was withal of a perfect kindness and directness, love
undefiled and strong. The moment I became aware of his presence, I felt
him to be like one of those wonderful, pure youths of an Italian
picture, whose whole mind is set on manful things, untroubled by the
love of woman, and yet finding all the world in