Fate or Force which was controlling my history. I had been all
my life such a busy man that the vacuity of my first experience after
dying had chafed me terribly. To be of no consequence; not to be in
demand; not to be depended upon by a thousand people, and for a
thousand things; not to dash somewhere upon important errands; not to
feel that a minute was a treasure, and that mine were valued as hid
treasures; not to know that my services were superior; to feel the
canker of idleness eat upon me like one of the diseases which I had
considered impossible to my organization; to observe the hours, which
had hitherto been invisible, like rear forces pushing me to the front;
to watch the crippled moments, which had always flown past me like
mocking-birds; to know to the full the absence of movement in life; to
feel deficiency of purpose like paralysis stiffen me; to have no hope
of anything better, and not to know what worse might be before
me,--such had been my first experience of the new life. It had done as
much as this for me: it had fitted me for the humblest form of activity
which my qualifications made possible; it had taught me the elements of
gratitude for an improved condition, as suffering, when it vibrates to
the intermission of relief, teaches cheerfulness to the sick.

An appreciable sense of gratification, which, if it could not be called
pleasure, was at least a diminution of pain, came to me from the
society of my friend, the distinguished man and powerful spirit who had
so befriended me. I admit that I was glad to have a man to deal with;
though I did not therefore feel the less a loyalty to my dear and
faithful patient, whose services to me had been so true and tender. I
missed her. I needed her counsel about the child. I would fain have
spoken to her of many little matters. I watched for her, and wondered
that she came no more to us. Although so new a comer, Mrs. Faith
proved to be a person of position in the place; her name was well and
honourably known about the neighbourhood; and I therefore easily
learned that she was absent on a journey. It was understood that she
had been called to her old home, where for some reason her husband and
her child had need of her. It was her precious privilege to minister
to them, I knew not how; it was left to me to imagine why. Bitterly I
thought of Helen. Between herself and me the awful gates of death had
shut; to pass them, though I would have died again