r of all
Egyptians from time immemorial had been that they might each day "leave
the dim Underworld in order to see the light of the sun upon earth."
Akhnaton had prayed this prayer, which was ancient before his day.

Meg knew that his prayer had been answered. Akhnaton, the King, the
passionate heretic, the visionary and the prophet, was seeing his
adored Sun rising over his kingdom. His persistent prayers had been
granted, his desire realized. His spirit had come forth to see the
sun's rays. As he gazed at the sun, the years had rolled back. Three
thousand years are but a span in the march of eternity. He was alone
with his God, as alone as the Moslem figures who were prostrating
themselves to the ground. He was enjoying the beauty of Aton in the
silent valley, which his footsteps had so often trod, the valley
overlooking the city which to him, in his manhood, became the city of
abomination and desolation, the city of false gods.

As the light of day flooded the desert, the figure became invisible to
Meg. It seemed to melt into the golden air. She felt that it might
still be standing there, quite close to her, only she could not see it.
Her powers were limited; the light concealed the figure. Being
luminous, she had been able to see it clearly in the darkness, just as
she was able to see the luminous match-box which she always kept on a
table by her bedside. She knew it was there, always shining, only her
eyes were unable to see its brightness in the daylight. The figure of
Akhnaton might be near her still. How clearly it had stood out in the
darkness, how brightly the rays of the sun had declared the symbol of
Aton!

Had it all been an optical delusion, born of her nervous condition? Or
was it a dream? Was she still in bed sleeping? How could she prove to
herself that she was awake, that she had come out to see the dawn, that
she was standing in front of her hut and not asleep in bed? In her
dreams, she had often dreamed that she was dreaming; she had often told
herself that her dreams were all dreams; she had often done things in
her dreams to prove to herself that they were not dreams. If she
stooped to pick up some sand to prove that her feet were pressing the
desert, might not that, too, be a part of her dream? What on earth was
there to prove the real from the unreal?

Now that she knew about Akhnaton and his beautiful religion, which is
the religion of all reasoning mortals to-day, and ha