possibilities in the world around her. She was
ready for her 'adventure brave and new.' Rabbi Ben Ezra had waited
for death to open the gate to it, but to Hildeguard it seemed that
she was in the midst of it now, that 'adventure brave and new' in
which death itself was also an adventure.

"'The Power of an Endless Life'--the words seemed to hover around
her, just eluding her grasp, just beyond her comprehension, yet
something of their significance she seemed to catch. She remembered
the flash of intuition as she stood beside Frances' newly-made
grave, but she realized, her eyes on the old pictures, that it
would take aeons to understand all it meant, to exhaust all the
wonder of the idea. She could only bring to it her undeveloped
powers of thought and of imagination, but she knew that stretching
away, hid in an inexpressible light, lay depths undreamt of. To her
nineteenth-century intellect life could only mean evolution--life
ever taking to itself new forms, developing itself in new ways. At
the bed-rock of all her thought lay the consciousness of 'the Power
not ourselves, which makes for Righteousness.'

"No mystic she, to whom an ineffable union with the Highest was the
goal of all. Never even distantly did she reach to that idea.
Rather she was one of God's simple-hearted soldiers, who took her
orders and stood to her post. The words thrilled her, not with the
prospect of rest, but with the excitement of advance, 'an Endless
Life' with ever new possibilities of growth and of achievement,
ever greater battles to be fought for the right, and always new
hopes of happiness. Doubtingly and hesitatingly she committed
herself to the thought, conscious that it had been forming slowly
and unregarded in the strenuous months that lay behind her, through
the long years, ever since the first seemingly hopeless 'good-bye'
had wrung her heart. She began dimly to feel the 'power' of the
idea, the life of which she was the holder, only 'part of a greater
whole.' Earth itself only a step in a great progression. Ever
upward, ever onward, marching towards some 'Divine far-off event,
to which the whole creation moves.'"

If another pen than Elsie Inglis's had drawn the picture we should have
said it was one of herself. Surely she was able to weave around her
heroine, f