of the organ arise like voices of the spirits, going up,
up, whispering, appealing, promising, assuring. Then--for I
could see and hear with him--there came to that young man when
he ceased to seek, the very exaltation he had longed to know.

"Ah! yes, Singing Mouse," I said, "it was very beautiful. But
music is not final. Music is not the Truth. Tell me of these
things."

The Singing Mouse again seemed to hesitate. "It may be," said
the Singing Mouse slowly, "that the Truth will never be found
between the covers of any book, no matter how wise. It may be
that it never will be found by any who search for it always
within walls built by human hands. It may be that no man can
convey to another that which is the Truth to him. It may be that
the Truth can never be grasped, never be weighed or formulated.

"The ways of Nature are always the same, but Nature does not ask
exactness of form. Why, then, shall we ask exactness of faith?
The true faith is nothing final, not more than are final the
carved stones of the church which offers it so strenuously. The
stones crumble and decay, but new churches rise. New faiths will
rise. But were not all well?"

At these things I wondered, and over them I thought for a time,
but yet I did not understand all that the Singing Mouse had
said. As if it knew my thought, the Singing Mouse said to me:

"Your vision is too narrow. You seek the great truths in small
places, and wonder that you do not find them. Come with me."

The Singing Mouse waved its hand, as was its wont, and as in a
dream and as though I were now the young man whom we had lately
seen, I was transported, by what means I could not tell, into a
place far distant. At first it seemed to me there was a figure
in vestments, speaking I scarce knew of what. Again there was a
church or a cathedral. I could see the rafters as I lay. I could
hear the solemn and exalted peal of the organ. I could hear
voices that sang up and up, thrilling, compelling.

The sense of the confinement of the building ceased. Insensibly
I seemed to see the hewn stones of the walls assume their
primeval and untouched state beneath the grasses of the hills.
I could feel the rafters vanishing and going back into the
bodies of the oaks in which they originally grew. The voice of
the organ remained with me, but it might have been the roll of
the waves upon the shore. I was in the Temple. In the Temple,
one needs not seek for names.

It was night. I l