cruel,
rapacious thoughts, and I was sad to think that this could ever have
been I.

"It is not very nice," said Amroth with a smile; "one does not care to
revive that! You were young then, and had much before you."

Another picture flashed into the mind. Was it true? I was a woman, it
seemed, looking out of a window on the street in a town with high, dark
houses, strongly built of stone: there was a towered gate at a little
distance, with some figures drawing up sacks with a pulley to a door in
the gate. A man came up behind me, pulled me roughly back, and spoke
angrily; I answered him fiercely and shrilly. The room I was in seemed
to be a shop or store; there were barrels of wine, and bags of corn. I
felt that I was busy and anxious--it was not a pleasant retrospect.

"Yet you were better then," said Amroth "you thought little of your
drudgery, and much of your children."

Yes, I had had children, I saw. Their names and appearance floated
before me. I had loved them tenderly. Had they passed out of my life? I
felt bewildered.

Amroth laid a hand on my arm and smiled again. "No, you came near to
some of them again. Do you not remember another life in which you loved
a friend with a strange love, that surprised you by its nearness? He had
been your child long before; and one never quite loses that."

I saw in a flash the other life he spoke of. I was a student, it seemed,
at some university, where there was a boy of my own age, a curious,
wilful, perverse, tactless creature, always saying and doing the wrong
thing, for whom I had felt a curious and unreasonable responsibility. I
had always tried to explain him to other people, to justify him; and he
had turned to me fop help and companionship in a singular way. I saw
myself walking with him in the country, expostulating, gesticulating;
and I saw him angry and perplexed.... The vision vanished.

"But what becomes of all those whom we have loved?" I said; "it cannot
be as if we had never loved them."

"No, indeed," said Amroth, "they are all there or here; but there lies
one of the great mysteries which we cannot yet attain to. We shall be
all brought together some time, closely and perfectly; but even now, in
the world of matter, the spirit half remembers; and when one is
strangely and lovingly drawn to another soul, when that love is not of
the body, and has nothing of passion in it, then it is some close
ancient tie reasserting itself. Do you not know how old