From Whose Bourne | Page 4

and the other; but the communication that exists is so slight and unsatisfactory, that if you are sensible you will see things with the eyes of those who have very much more experience in this world than you have. Of course, you can go back there as much as you like; there will be no interference and no hindrance. But when you see things going wrong, when you see a mistake about to be made, it is an appalling thing to stand there helpless, unable to influence those you love, or to point out a palpable error, and convince them that your clearer sight sees it as such. Of course, I understand that it must be very difficult for a man who is newly married, to entirely abandon the one who has loved him, and whom he loves. But I assure you that if you follow the life of one who is as young and handsome as your wife, you will find some one else supplying the consolations you are unable to bestow. Such a mission may lead you to a church where she is married to her second husband. I regret to say that even the most imperturbable spirits are ruffled when such an incident occurs. The wise men are those who appreciate and understand that they are in an entirely new world, with new powers and new limitations, and who govern themselves accordingly from the first, as they will certainly do later on."
"My dear sir," said Brenton, somewhat offended, "if what you say is true, and I am really a dead man----"
"Alive," corrected the other.
"Well, alive, then. I may tell you that my wife's heart is broken. She will never marry again."
"Of course, that is a subject which you know a great deal more than I do. I all the more strongly advise you never to see her again. It is impossible for you to offer any consolation, and the sight of her grief, and misery will only result in unhappiness for yourself. Therefore, take my advice. I have given it very often, and I assure you those who did not take it expressed their regret afterwards. Hold entirely aloof from anything relating to your former life."
Brenton was silent for some moments; finally he said--
"I presume your advice is well meant; but if things are as you state, then I may as well say, first as last, that I do not intend to accept it."
"Very well," said the other; "it is an experience that many prefer to go through for themselves."
"Do you have names in this spirit-land?" asked Brenton, seemingly desirous of changing the subject.
"Yes," was the answer; "we are known by names that we have used in the preparatory school below. My name is Ferris."
"And if I wish to find you here, how do I set about it?"
"The wish is sufficient," answered Ferris. "Merely wish to be with me, and you are with me."
"Good gracious!" cried Brenton, "is locomotion so easy as that?"
"Locomotion is very easy. I do not think anything could be easier than it is, and I do not think there could be any improvement in that matter."
"Are there matters here, then, that you think could be improved?"
"As to that I shall not say. Perhaps you will be able to give your own opinion before you have lived here much longer."
"Taking it all in all," said Brenton, "do you think the spirit-land is to be preferred to the one we have left?"
"I like it better," said Ferris, "although I presume there are some who do not. There are many advantages; and then, again, there are many--well, I would not say disadvantages, but still some people consider them such. We are free from the pangs of hunger or cold, and have therefore no need of money, and there is no necessity for the rush and the worry of the world below."
"And how about heaven and hell?" said Brenton. "Are those localities all a myth? Is there nothing of punishment and nothing of reward in this spirit-land?"
There was no answer to this, and when Brenton looked around he found that his companion had departed.
[Illustration: Venice.]

CHAPTER III.
William Brenton pondered long on the situation. He would have known better how to act if he could have been perfectly certain that he was not still the victim of a dream. However, of one thing there was no doubt--namely, that it was particularly harrowing to see what he had seen in his own house. If it were true that he was dead, he said to himself, was not the plan outlined for him by Ferris very much the wiser course to adopt? He stood now in one of the streets of the city so familiar to him. People passed and repassed him--men and women whom he had known in life--but nobody