"Well, life is short at the best. Seventy years, they say, pass like a vapour, like a dream when one awaketh; and every path trod by human feet terminates in one bourne--the grave, the little chink in the surface of this great globe, the furrow where the mighty husbandman with the scythe deposits the seed he has shaken from the ripe stem; and there it falls, decays, and thence it springs again, when the world has rolled round a few times more. So much for the body. The soul meantime wings its long flight upward, folds its wings on the brink of the sea of fire and glass, and gazing down through the burning clearness, finds there mirrored the vision of the Christian's triple Godhead--the sovereign Father, the mediating Son, the Creator Spirit. Such words, at least, have been chosen to express what is inexpressible, to describe what baffles description. The soul's real hereafter who shall guess?"
Her fire was decayed to its last cinder; Malone had departed; and now the study bell rang for prayers.

"Well, life is short at the best. Seventy years, they say, pass like a dream; and every path trod by human feet ends in the grave, the furrow where the mighty husbandman with the scythe sets the seed he has shaken from the ripe stem; there it falls, decays, and thence it springs again, when the world has rolled round a few times more. So much for the body. The soul meantime wings its long flight upward, folds its wings on the brink of the sea of fire and glass, and gazing through the burning clearness, finds there mirrored the vision of the sovereign Father, the mediating Son, the Creator Spirit. Such words, at least, have been chosen to express what is inexpressible. The soul's real hereafter who shall guess?"
Her fire was out; the study bell rang for prayers.
