y,
that her waking bliss and peace, although unfortunately
unattributable even to autocatalepsy, much less to somnambulist
exaltation, was on the whole, however unscientific, almost as
enviable.

There she lies--and will lie till she dies--the type of thousands
more, 'the martyrs by the pang without the palm,' who find no mates
in this life . . . and yet may find them in the life to come., . .
Poor Paul Tregarva! Little he fancies how her days run by! . . .

At least, there has been no news since that last scene in St. Paul's
Cathedral, either of him or Lancelot. How their strange teacher has
fulfilled his promise of guiding their education; whether they have
yet reached the country of Prester John; whether, indeed, that
Caucasian Utopia has a local and bodily existence, or was only used
by Barnakill to shadow out that Ideal which is, as he said of the
Garden of Eden, always near us, underlying the Actual, as the spirit
does its body, exhibiting itself step by step through all the
falsehoods and confusions of history and society, giving life to all
in it which is not falsehood and decay; on all these questions I can
give my readers no sort of answer; perhaps I may as yet have no
answer to give; perhaps I may be afraid of giving one; perhaps the
times themselves are giving, at once cheerfully and sadly, in
strange destructions and strange births, a better answer than I can
give. I have set forth, as far as in me lay, the data of my
problem: and surely, if the premises be given, wise men will not
have to look far for the conclusion. In homely English I have given
my readers Yeast; if they be what I take them for, they will be able
to bake with it themselves.

And yet I have brought Lancelot, at least--perhaps Tregarva too--to
a conclusion, and an all-important one, which whoso reads may find
fairly printed in these pages. Henceforth his life must begin anew.
Were I to carry on the thread of his story continuously he would
still seem to have overleaped as vast a gulf as if I had re-
introduced him as a gray-haired man. Strange! that the death of one
of the lovers should seem no complete termination to their history,
when their marriage would have been accepted by all as the
legitimate denouement, beyond which no information was to be
expected. As if the history of love always ended at the altar!
Oftener it only begins there; and all before it is but a mere
longing to love.