Her name, I think,
was Mallard.
"Have you a conviction of disease, my daughter?" she asked, in a low voice
with a caressing overtone gurgling in its cadences. "You look as radiant
as the morn. You should not think ill."
"I am not ill," I replied; "but the world is harsh."
"The world is the expression of our sense life to the spirit," she cooed.
"We do not live or die, but we pass through the phenomena. Through the
purifying of our thoughts we will gradually become more and more ethereal
until we are translated."
I felt that momentary shiver that folk tales tells us is caused by some
one walking over our graves.
"I'm in no haste to be translated," I said.
"No one need be translated until she is ready--unless she has enemies. Are
you suffering from the errors of others? Has any one felt fear for you?
That would account for what the world calls unhappiness. Is some one
trying to influence your subjective state?"
"I am convinced of it," I said with wasted sarcasm. "But you can do
nothing for me; you can't--can you work on unbelievers?"
"Most assuredly. We are channels through which truth must flow to our
patients.
Pages:
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346