She had
broken through the barriers of earth; the quick electric message of her
heart had found a path to him she loved and come back answered. But in
what tongue was that answer writ? Alas! she could not read it, any more
than he could read the message. At first she doubted; surely it was
imagination. Then she remembered it was absolutely proved that people
dying could send a vision of themselves to others far away; and if that
could be, why not this? No, it was truth, a solemn truth; she knew he
felt her thought, she knew that his life beat upon her life. Oh, here
was mystery, and here was hope, for if this could be, and it _was_, what
might not be? If her blind strength of human love could so overstep the
boundaries of human power, and, by the sheer might of its volition,
mock the physical barriers that hemmed her in, what had she to fear from
distance, from separation, ay, from death itself? She had grasped a
clue which might one day, before the seeming end or after--what did it
matter?--lay strange secrets open to her gaze. She had heard a whisper
in an unknown tongue that could still be learned, answering Life's
agonizing cry with a song of glory.
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