In this mind Thorwald said:

"I perceive, Doctor, that your sturdy self-respect and the fear that you might appear in a false position have compelled you to be unfair to yourself. You believe more than you confess, else why did you repel with such feeling my insinuation that you were a heathen? But if you have ever determined to go through life believing in only what your hand can touch and your eye can see, let me induce you to close your eyes and fold your hands for a while, and with expectancy wait for the coming into your heart of that divine influence which, encouraged however feebly, shall presently show to your inner and better vision, in all his beauty, him whom no eye hath seen nor can see.

"I do not exclude you therefore, Doctor, when I say again that we have all been drawn into close sympathy by the knowledge your companion has imparted, and in what I have to say further I am sure you will both see a great deal to cause you to realize that your race and ours have the same dear Father, who is guiding us to a common destiny.

"At your request I am to give you from time to time, as we have opportunity, an account of the successive steps of our development, and I would like to say at the start that there will be one great difference between what I am to tell you and the rambling talk with which we began our happy acquaintance. Then I gave you a few facts to show our present condition, without intimating that there was any higher force at work than a natural desire in us to make the most of ourselves, and treat our neighbors well. Now, since I have discovered that you can enter into my feelings to a greater or less extent, I shall not hesitate to refer to its true source all that has helped us attain to our present condition, and all that is urging us on to a still higher state."

"We shall he very glad to know what you consider the spring of all the vast improvement in your race," I remarked.

"I did not use the word 'consider,'" replied Thorwald. "That would imply doubt where there is none. It is established beyond controversy that both our material and spiritual development have come only through the personal love and care of God for the creatures whom he has made, exhibited through all our history, but especially through the sending of his Son."

"Some on the earth recognize the same truth in reference to our race," I said. "But, in general, people do not think much of such things, or if they think they do not say much. In fact, religious subjects are not as a rule popular in conversation."

"Why, what reason can there be for that?" Thorwald inquired with eager interest.

"Oh, there is too much indifference in the matter," I replied. "I suppose most men do not think their relations to their Maker important enough to give them any concern. And even the best among us shrink from urging their opinions on others, partly because they know they are not perfect examples themselves, and also from the feeling that their friends are intelligent beings and ought to know, as well as they do, what is best for them."

"Oh, then, my dear Doctor," said Thorwald, "I perceive that I have committed a breach of etiquette in forcing this subject upon you, and in asking you to put yourself in the way of receiving spiritual impressions."

"In the circumstances, I think you are excusable," replied the doctor; "and, besides, I believe I introduced the topic."

"If you stay long with us," resumed Thorwald, "you will become accustomed to religious conversation, for here there is entire freedom in such matters. Our spiritual experiences and the great possibilities of the future state are exceedingly pleasant things to talk about, we think, and we feel no more sensitiveness in doing it than in conversing on the ordinary affairs of life. Being relieved of so many of the cares pertaining to your existence, our minds are the more prepared to occupy themselves with these high themes, and what is more natural than that we should often like to speak to each other about them? As these things become more real to you and the necessity of spending so much time in caring for the body diminishes, you will gradually lose your present feeling. You will also find that, in making these subjects familiar, they need not lose dignity and you need not lose reverence."

"Thorwald," asked the doctor, "could you not give us a brief sketch of your career, so that we may compare it with that of our race?"

"I will do the best I can," answered Thorwald. "I think that is a good suggestion, and after that is done any of us can tell you the history of different epochs as opportunity offers. You are both such good listeners that it is a pleasure to talk to you, but I want you to promise to interrupt me with questions whenever you wish anything more fully explained."

We promised to do so, and Thorwald began:

"Our world is very old. The geologic formations tell us of a time when no life could exist—long ages of convulsion and change in the crust of the globe. In time the conflict of the elements subsided and the boundaries between land and water were established. Then came vegetable life, rank and abundant, preparing stores of coal and oil for use in the far future. Animals followed, the first forms crude and monstrous, but succeeded by others better adapted to be the contemporaries and companions of our race.

"The planet was now ready for its destiny, and it was put into the hands of intelligent beings, made in the image of their Creator. This race started in the highest conceivable state, perfect in body, mind, and spirit. The material world was soon subdued to their use, and paradise reigned below. We do not know how long this condition lasted, but in some way sin entered and all was changed. Sorrow and death came, and a thousand ills to vex us. Another period passed, and the race had become so wicked that it could not be allowed to exist. A pestilence swept over the world, and all but one tribe perished. Through this remnant the world was repeopled, but sin and woe remained, to be driven out at last only by a struggle too great for the arm of flesh alone.

"But the conflict began in hope, a hope inspired by the voice of God. From the very entrance of sin help from above had been promised in the person of one who should conquer evil, and through whom the race might be restored to a much higher position even than that from which it had fallen. Slowly the spirit of good, which is the spirit of God, worked upon the heart, and in all ages there were some who walked in that spirit. By one such soul God raised up a people to whom he committed his message to the race, and through whom, at a later day, he fulfilled the promise. Among this people there arose many faithful ones, and by them, from time to time, God added to his message, acting as the personal guide and defender of his people, and leading them by every path until they finally knew him, in every fiber of their being, to be the only God.

"Prophets, too, there were among them, who, under divine guidance, foretold a time of universal peace, when the kingdom of Christ should come in all hearts and when even the beasts of the field should dwell together in unity."

"Why, we have just such prophecies," said I, "but they are generally interpreted figuratively. Do you really think they will be literally fulfilled on the earth?"

"Well," answered Thorwald, "I have already told you what has come to pass here, and I will leave you to judge from our experience as to what will come of the prophecies that have been made to you. From all you have said at one time and another, I can see plenty of evidence that the earth is traveling the same road with us, and I have no doubt it will one day reach even a higher condition than the one we now enjoy.

"At length, when the time was ripe, God sent the promised Saviour. He, the Lord of heaven, came and lived as one of us. He gathered around him a few faithful souls, he preached his gospel of light and comfort to the poor, and wept over the very woes he had come down to remove. His humility proved a stumbling-block to the selfishness of the world, and his own nation rejected him. He conquered death and returned to his Father's home, but his spirit, which had always been present in some measure, now came with force, and began, through his followers, the task of regenerating the race.

"A feeble church, planted thus amid sin and darkness, took deep root in loyal hearts, grew strong with persecution, and soon kindled a light which pierced the darkness and gradually spread its illumination over all our planet. The history of that church is the history of our development. The race has not come so far toward its maturity without a mighty struggle. The long course of preparation for the present higher condition has had many interruptions and obstructions. There have been dark ages of stagnation and threatened defeat, and there have been ages of hope and advancement. Through all this history the light of the gospel, though often obscured, has never been extinguished, and every step of progress that has been made in our condition is to be traced directly to that light. We have not always been able to realize that; but, now that we understand more fully our wonderful career, we see how true it is that we have been led by a divine hand."

"Do you mean," I asked, "that your vast improvement in material affairs has come through Christianity?"

"Certainly," answered Thorwald. "Our civilization has walked hand in hand with true religion, and in all ages every permanent advance in our condition has come through the influence of the spirit of good, which is always urging us to a higher and better state. In our progress many mistakes have been made, with consequences so serious as to threaten at the time our final defeat; but a higher power has led us through all our troubles to a place of safety, where we can survey with gratitude the field of conflict. If you so desire, I can relate to you at another time some of the mistakes which have at times set us back in our march toward a physical and spiritual superiority."

We were pleased to notice by this last remark of Thorwald's that he had still in reserve many things to tell us, and we so expressed ourselves to him.



CHAPTER XXII.

AGAIN THE MOON.

Days passed and brought no news of Mona. I did all in my power to appear cheerful, but often made a dismal failure of it. No one could help me, and Thorwald, though sympathetic like all the rest, would allow me no false hopes. He said a systematic and thorough search had been made, both on land and water, without result, and he could see no prospect of any success in the future. But, while I could see that Thorwald was about ready to abandon in despair the attempt to find Mona, I would not give up hope. I did not know at the time what excellent reasons Thorwald had for his feeling, for I did not realize how very complete the search had been, but my own faith was not founded on reason. I simply refused to believe that I should never see again the object of such deep love.

While affairs were in this condition, Thorwald said to us one morning:

"I wonder you have not been more anxious to see one of our flying machines. Our system of aerial navigation is one of the most enjoyable of our material blessings, and I shall take great pleasure in giving you a taste of it."

"I think one reason," I answered, "why we have not asked about it is because we have had so many other interesting things to see, and then you know we had our share of traveling in the air in coming to you. However, we shall be delighted to see your method at any time when you are pleased to exhibit it."

"Very well," said Thorwald; "then we will get up an expedition at once. Zenith and Avis will accompany us, I think; and as we shall probably fall in with Foedric, we will send for Antonia to go also."

"That will make a pleasant party," I said.

We found all were glad to go and witness our introduction to a modern air ship, and we were soon off.

Not far from the house we found a luxurious carriage of just the right size for us all. We did not see another like it anywhere about, and I was moved to ask:

"How does it happen, Thorwald, that exactly the kind of conveyance you want is ready without any prearrangement? This sort of carriage does not appear to be very plentiful."

"Things generally 'happen,' as you call it, for our convenience," he said. "Is it not so with you to some extent? If all the people wanted to travel in your cars on the same day and at the same hour, they could not easily be accommodated, but some dispensation divides them up so that there are, I presume, about the same number who find it necessary or convenient to travel each day. This subject has been studied by us, and we believe that even these details of our lives are all arranged by him to whom nothing is small, nothing great."

A pleasant ride of a few miles brought us to a seaport, and to a scene of much activity. It seemed to be a great distributing point, as numerous loads of many kinds of goods were moving about, and immense stores of fruit and vegetables were to be seen. These products of the soil were of bewildering variety and surpassing richness, showing us that agriculture, providing most of the food of the people, must be a favorite science with many, and one that brought rich rewards. It was pleasing to see everything going on in such a quiet, orderly manner, and so many people at work without friction and with no look of fret, hurry, or fatigue. Everyone seemed to be enjoying his work, if that could be called work which looked so much like pleasure.

After riding through several busy streets we drew near an imposing structure, which Thorwald told us was the front of the aerial station. At the same time he directed our attention to the sky, and we saw a number of air ships sailing leisurely along, some just starting out and others apparently returning home. The doctor and I had our interest quickened by this sight and were anxious for a closer view. As the fact of riding in the air was not new to us, we had not been much excited by the prospect of seeing how the Martians did it. But these ships were so different from anything we had ever seen before that we began to anticipate a great deal from our excursion after all.

Going through the building, we came into an immense court or open space, large enough, one would suppose, for the fleets of a nation. Here were a great number of flying machines of various sizes, all gayly decorated with pleasing colors, and many of them, apparently, waiting for passengers. Thorwald selected one of medium size, and as we approached, whom should we find in charge but our young friend Foedric? In answer to Thorwald's question, he told us that both he and his vessel were at our service, and we proceeded to mount to our seats in the car.

Foedric pulled a small lever, and we began to rise. He then expressed his pleasure to the doctor and me that he had the opportunity of making our further acquaintance.

"We are taking them for the ride," said Thorwald, "and you may choose any course and go to any height you please."

We thanked Foedric for his pleasant words, and then he showed us about the car and explained its conveniences. It was quite large, with a number of apartments and accommodations sufficient for a dozen people both day and night. Besides the ordinary furnishings for comfortable living, we saw air-condensing machines for use in lofty flights, a good-sized telescope, instruments for measuring speed and height, and other scientific apparatus of much of which we were obliged to ask the use.

Although Foedric was so much younger than Thorwald, he was taller and larger every way—a magnificent specimen of a magnificent race. In speaking to Thorwald he showed a proper respect for his greater age, and he bore himself becomingly in the presence of Zenith; but there was not the slightest sign of subserviency, nor anything to show that, though engaged in what might be called a lowly occupation, he was not on terms of perfect equality and even friendship with them. This easy poise of manner would not have surprised us had we known what Thorwald soon told us, and from this experience we learned never to judge a Martian by the work he happened to be doing.

"Foedric is a scholar," said Thorwald, "and is engaged just now in writing a treatise on the color of sounds."

This announcement was a double surprise, for we would have said, if he was writing anything, that it must be something about ballooning—the application of electricity to flying machinery, perhaps. But Thorwald further enlightened us, the talk going on in Foedric's presence:

"He was attracted to that subject by the fact that he possesses in a striking degree the faculty of hearing color, which belongs only to refined minds. We all have this power to some extent, but in this, as in so many other things, there are great differences among us. As an example of this power, if you will excuse me, Doctor, I will tell you that your voice is dark blue, while yours," he continued, turning to me, "is yellow. Foedric, a true son of Mars, speaks red, and as for Zenith, her soft, pink voice has always been to me one of her principal charms, and though it would be folly to deny that she has changed some in appearance (not for the worse, however) since I first knew her, her voice has retained the same tone or color. I will ask Foedric if I am correct in my impressions."

"Quite correct," answered Foedric. "When I first heard your friend, the doctor, speak I thought his voice was brown, but it has changed since to such an extent that I think as you do—that the prevailing tinge is a deep blue. Such cases are not unknown among us, but they are not frequent."

"If the color of my voice sympathizes with my thoughts," said the doctor, "I do not wonder that your quick ears have noticed a change."

"I ought to say," resumed Foedric, "that I have to rely on my friends to tell me the shade of my own voice, for to my ears it is as colorless as a piece of the clearest glass, and this is the common experience."

"I would like to ask about the color of Antonia's voice," I said, "and Avis's, too."

"Antonia's is a beautiful green," answered Foedric, looking with a smile at the fair one, "and Avis, both in song and speech, has your color— yellow."

"Foedric," said Thorwald, "tell our friends what you and others are trying to discover in connection with the air vibrations. It may be suggestive to them."

"I can claim but little part in the work," Foedric responded, "but it is this. Our ears report to our brain the air waves until they reach a frequency of forty thousand in a second, and we call the sensation sound. When the vibrations of the ether are more rapid than that, we have no sense with which to receive the impression until they reach the great number of four hundred million millions in a second. Then they affect the eye and produce red light, and as they increase still more the color becomes orange, then yellow, green, blue, and violet. Perhaps your limitations are not the same as ours, but our scientists are trying to discover some means by which we can arrest and make use of a small part at least of those waves which strike our bodies at a frequency between forty thousand and four hundred million millions. It is still an unsolved problem, this search for another sense, and we are now looking forward for help in the task to the studies of the civilization represented in our comet."

All this time we were rising slowly but hardly realizing it, being filled with that peculiar sensation, incident to balloon journeys, by which we could almost believe we were remaining about in the same place and the solid ground was falling away from us.

Now Foedric increased our speed and showed us how easily he could sail in any direction and at any rate he pleased, explaining to us the mechanism by which we were upheld and propelled, and also the way in which the current of electricity was generated and applied. They certainly had a wonderful method of producing great power with little weight, and the doctor eagerly drank in the information in regard to it, as if for future use.

It was charming. The atmosphere was as clear as crystal, the air balmy and the motion delightful, and if the Martians, with their purer nature and keener senses, enjoyed the trip that morning more than we earth-dwellers did, then their capacity for enjoyment must have been beyond ours. The ship seemed to be under perfect control; there was nothing uncertain in her movements, and as we went sailing along without fear of harm, in the very poetry of motion, the doctor and I realized over and over again that we had much to learn in this method of navigation.

Now we were riding at a good height, and our vision could take in a wide expanse of land and water. The peculiarity of the surface of Mars was noticeable, the seas being long, narrow inlets, as it were, running through or between winding strings of land, a decided contrast to the great oceans and noble continents of our mother earth. It seemed to me that this was much to the advantage of the earth, and so I was bold enough to say:

"When I used to look at a map of Mars, Thorwald, I remember thinking that the planet was not a handsome one, whatever might be the character of its inhabitants. But I have no doubt you have an answer for me which will give some good reason for the peculiar structure of the surface of Mars and make me ashamed of my sentimental preference for the earth."

"I certainly hope you will hear nothing while you are with us to make you ashamed of your own planet," said Thorwald; "but I must tell you the truth in regard to Mars. How do you like our climate, as far as you have experienced it?"

"We have enjoyed it exceedingly," I answered, "and I have been on the point of remarking several times that we were fortunate in making our visit here at so pleasant a season of the year."

"But," said Thorwald, "you could not have come in a worse season, for we have none worse than this. The temperature varies enough to give variety, hut not enough in either direction to cause discomfort. Each season is quite distinctive from the others, but each has its peculiar charm and all are equally enjoyable. Our telescopes tell us it is not so on the earth, for we can see the winter snow creep well down on its surface and remain there several months, then go away and come on the other hemisphere. We know this means great changes of climate, and as the inclination of the axis of the earth to the plane of its orbit is about the same as that of the axis of Mars, we believe we would have equally violent changes were it not for the fortunate distribution of land and water on our planet. All those narrow seas which disfigure our surface in your eyes, are in reality vast rivers, which are constantly bearing the water from one part of the globe to another. The warm water of the equatorial regions is carried to the cold countries north and south, and the water thus displaced cools in its turn the lands more directly under the sun. Thus the temperature of all parts is nearly equalized. In the summer in this latitude the water that washes our shores is cool and in the winter it is warm, and the strips of land are so narrow that all places feel the influence, making the climate delightful everywhere. At each pole there is a spot of perpetual snow, but these are comparatively small, and the fields are cultivated right up to the foot of the snow hills."

This recital excited the doctor's interest amazingly, and as Thorwald closed he said:

"I rather think my companion did not expect so complete an answer, but I am glad his words suggested to you this statement, Thorwald. It is of great value to us in our study of your remarkable planet. How wonderfully God has adapted everything to your comfort and well-being!"

Thorwald smiled in appreciation of the doctor's final words, but before he had time to speak we were a little startled by the red voice of Foedric, calling out:

"The moon! Look!"

It was nothing new for any of us now to look at our old moon. We had seen it almost every day, had talked much about it, and thought the novelty of its companionship to Mars about worn off. But our present high position and the clear, thin atmosphere gave it quite a changed appearance, as it was slowly coming into view above the horizon. We watched it in silence for a while and saw it mount the eastern sky, and I think all of us except Foedric had the same thought, that it appeared to be much nearer than usual. Foedric had seen it before from the same height, and knew when he called our attention to it that we were going to be surprised.

As the moon rose still higher it appeared to be coming toward us, instead of aiming at a point far over our heads, and our next sensation was caused by Zenith, who mildly exclaimed:

"It cannot be more than a few miles away. Why not go and make it a visit?"

To her surprise, if people of such high endowments ever are surprised, Thorwald asked quickly:

"Are you willing to try it if the rest of us are?"

"Certainly," she replied.

"Foedric," said Thorwald, "what do you say to flying out to the moon and attempting an invasion of it?"

"I say," answered Foedric, "that I am ready. We have provisions enough for several days, and I believe the capacity of our battery is sufficient for the trip." Thorwald learned from Avis and Antonia that they would not object to the trial, and then said:

"Well, we have a good majority, but must not think of deciding on so important a step unless the feeling is unanimous. Let us hear from our friends here, who have had some experience with the moon."

The doctor said pleasantly that he should like nothing better than the proposed experiment, and, as I was the last, I remarked that I could not spoil such an interesting project by withholding my consent. But it seemed to me all the time that the whole thing was a joke and that it would end at once in a laugh. I thought of the cold and cheerless surface of the moon, comparing it in my mind with the delectable world we were leaving, and had no relish for the proposed trip. Something of my feeling must have been reflected in my countenance, for Zenith, who had been looking at me, said in a sympathetic tone:

"Although you gave your consent, you look as if you did not enjoy the prospect of another visit to the moon."

Thorwald heard this remark, and after a glance at me he said:

"You are right, Zenith, and I think we will abandon the idea at once. We started out today for the purpose of entertaining the doctor and his friend, and it would not become us to treat them to more of a ride than they desire."

"You are both excellent mind readers," I responded. "And if I were as honest as you Martians are, I suppose I should have said in the first place that I preferred not to make such an extended journey. I suspect the doctor is willing to go ahead, as he is too sensible to be affected by such a feeling as now moves me. My thoughts turn back to our departure from the earth in a balloon, and I cannot rid my mind of the dreadful fear that perhaps we are now unconsciously bidding a long farewell to Mars."

Thorwald thanked me for my frankness and said they should certainly respect my sentiment. He then stepped to Foedric's side to speak to him in regard to a change of course. At that moment I looked at the moon, which had been rapidly approaching us. What was it that suddenly gave it a deeper interest to me? A flash of intelligence suffused my being like an electric shock, frilling my imagination with the most beautiful vision and making the moon appear to me now as the one desirable place in all the universe.

"Thorwald," I exclaimed, "keep right on! I want to go now. I have changed my mind."

"Yes," he responded, looking at me with a pleased smile, "and I see you have changed your face, too. You look like quite another man. Why this sudden transition?"

"Don't you know? Mona is there."

"Where?"

"In the moon, of course."

"How do you know that? You seem to be pretty confident."

"Why, she must be there. You couldn't find her on land or water, and you know you have no accidents in Mars, so she could not have come to any harm there. I know we shall find her in the moon. She must have been left behind in some way when the doctor and I were thrown off, and now she is no doubt expecting us to come back to her. Oh, let us make haste."

"Well," answered Thorwald, "we were only waiting your consent, and we can now keep on as we are going and try to reach the moon. But I must give you a friendly warning not to let your hope get the better of your judgment in regard to finding your friend."

With this Thorwald and Foedric consulted a moment, and at once our speed increased till we were flying at a fearful rate, but none too fast for me. I knew now why I had been so reluctant to go so far away from Mars. It was because I thought Mona was there; but now, with my present opinion, the moon had suddenly changed its character and become to my imagination a bright and beautiful world. To such a degree does love transform the most unlovely objects.

I was struck with the easy way in which Zenith had accepted the result of what I thought her sportive suggestion, and, not being able to fathom her thoughts, I said to her:

"When we left home, this morning, you did not expect to be gone over night. Have you no anxiety about the house and the children?"

"Oh, no," she replied; "the house will not run away, nor the children either. We do not often stay away from them over night, but we do not hesitate to do so when we have a good reason for it. Our children know us well enough to be sure we have such a reason now, and this faith in us and in our safe return will permit us to stay away as long as we please. As for our feelings, we have no such thing as anxiety, for all our experience teaches us that no harm of any kind can come to our loved ones. I suppose in such circumstances on the earth both the mother and the children would have a feeling of great fear, caused by the fact that there would be in reality some danger of harm, but here we have never heard of such a thing, and even the word 'danger' has little meaning in it to us, because all we know about it comes from our reading." The moon was now well above us, and we were making for a point in the western sky where Foedric hoped to intercept it. We were already so far from the planet that the air was getting weak, so we all put on breathing machines. These were of such perfect construction that our lungs had free play, nor were they cumbersome enough to interfere much with our movements.

By this time the moon had grown so vastly, owing to our swift traveling, that our friends began to be amazed at its enormous proportions. The jagged, mountainous surface was plainly visible, a most uninviting place for people accustomed to the serene beauty and felicity of the planet Mars.

"Remember," said the doctor, "that you are not to judge the earth by what you see of her old satellite."

"Well," answered Thorwald, "we mean to see what we can of the satellite. Foedric, let us point the glass at it and be selecting a place to land."

But Foedric was obliged to let Thorwald handle the glass alone, for his attention was needed just now to manage our craft. He had discovered that shutting off the power did not diminish the speed, and for a moment he was puzzled, quite a new sensation for a Martian of that era. But he soon studied out the difficulty and made the following announcement:

"I find this huge mass that we are approaching is pulling us toward its surface, so that we are using but little power. I expect in a short time we can merely fall to its surface."

This suggested to Thorwald the very trouble that the doctor and I had encountered with our balloon, and he asked Foedric if we could get away again after we had dropped to the moon.

"Yes," Foedric answered, "I am sure we have power enough here to overcome the attraction and get away whenever we please."

Thorwald, who had been intently studying the surface through the telescope, now spoke out with some excitement in his voice:

"Doctor, I begin to think you did not make a thorough investigation of the moon's condition. Did you not report it practically uninhabited?"

"Our means of investigation were rather limited," replied the doctor, "but we surely found no inhabitants except poor Mona, whom, I am confident, we shall never see again. Why do you ask? Are there any signs of life visible? I have no doubt you Martians can see more at this distance than we could when standing on the globe itself."

"Well," Thorwald answered, "either you reached wrong conclusions or else a race has grown up there pretty rapidly. I cannot make out anything definite yet, but there is smoke, I am sure, and I can see some object moving about."

I had great difficulty in restraining my feelings as Thorwald uttered these words, but neither he nor the doctor seemed to realize what significance they had for me. Both had apparently given up all expectation of finding Mona anywhere, and these evidences of life, so plain to me, were therefore inexplicable to them. I controlled myself and begged Thorwald to let me look through the glass. He adjusted it for me, but before I could get a satisfactory view our swift motion made such a change in the appearance of the surface that Thorwald could not find the same spot again.

As no one said a word to indicate any thought of connecting Mona with the movements that Thorwald had observed, I determined that I would keep quiet also and await the result of our landing. I let my thoughts fly to my love, who, without doubt, had seen the approach of our air ship and was expecting our speedy arrival. What an addition she would make to our party, and how these Martians would study her history as she recounted it in that exquisite voice. But I should claim a large share of her time for myself. How glad I was to think that Foedric had so openly shown his affection for Antonia. Surely I need not harbor the jealous feeling that would arise, for so true a son of Mars could not fall to the level of some earthly men, and be unfaithful to so noble a girl as Antonia. It was beyond all reason, and yet my love for Mona, whom I thought we were soon to find, was such that I undesignedly but still unmistakably made up my mind to keep a close watch on handsome Foedric.



CHAPTER XXIII.

WE SEARCH FOR MONA.

We were indeed approaching the surface with great rapidity, and Foedric was obliged to put on power to prevent us from falling too swiftly. Fortunately he was able to keep our ship under perfect management, and so, without accident or even a shock, he brought us gently to land, not far from the spot where Thorwald had seen the signs of life. It was something new for the latter to show so much curiosity, but he could not be more eager than I was to attempt to find out what we had seen through the telescope. So, leaving the rest of the party, we two started out to investigate. It was kind of Thorwald to take me along, because he could ordinarily walk a great deal faster without me, but my love and hope now added wings to my feet and I surprised him with my agility.

Thorwald's skill in determining locality enabled him to choose the right direction, and after quite a walk we ascended a considerable hill, from which we were delighted to discover in the distance a small column of smoke—a remarkable sight on that sterile shore. We hastened toward it, Thorwald with high expectations of an important discovery, and I with a heart beating with joyful anticipations of a different character.

As we approached the spot of such intense interest for us both, I watched my companion closely to see how he would bear the disappointment which I felt sure awaited him; and this, I think, made it a little easier for me to endure my own grief, for, of course, I was disappointed, too. I ought to have known better than to expect to find Mona out on the bleak surface, when she had such a comfortable home inside the moon. What we found at the end of our journey was merely another party of Martians, who had stolen a march on us and made a prior invasion of the moon. But so unselfish were they that when they saw our ship afar off they began to make a smudge and smoke in order to attract our attention and give us the opportunity of sharing with them the glory of their anticipated discoveries. They were pleased with our success in finding them, and proposed that we join our forces in a common camp. So, leaving me, Thorwald returned for the rest of our party, and in due time we were all together, conversing on the footing of old acquaintances. The moon had improved somewhat since we knew it, as everything must which remains in the vicinity of the planet Mars, but it was not yet, as far as the outside, at least, was concerned, a desirable place for a long sojourn.

Our new friends had, unlike us, started from home with the intention of making the attempt to land on the moon, and, having come prepared with tools for a little scientific work, had already begun investigating, with a view to finding out whether the moon contained any vestiges of life. They had heard of the doctor and me and the outlines of our story, but now we had to relate to them in detail all our experience on the moon, while I concluded my part of the narration with the statement of my firm conviction that Mona was still in her quiet refuge, waiting for us to return and rescue her. This interested them exceedingly, and they were eager to join us in searching for her.

The members of our party, catching something of my hope, were ready to enter at once upon this task, and it was decided to divide all our forces into two companies, one to be led by the doctor and the other by me, and then to start in different directions to try to find the entrance to that long passage into the interior. As we knew not on what part of the moon's surface we had alighted, we were undertaking a bold piece of work, but its apparent difficulty had no terrors for the Martians, and I should not have hesitated if the circumference of the moon had been a hundred times what it was. As for the doctor, he had too much spirit to suggest any obstacles.

We arranged a code of signals, and agreed that if either party were successful the other should be notified and the descent made only when all had come together. After dividing the provisions we made our adieus and separated, not knowing when we should see one another again.

But, fortunately, our elaborate preparations were not of much use, for before we had been out an hour the doctor signaled to me that he had found some familiar landmarks. This meant that he was sure of discovering what we were in search of, and accordingly we started at once to rendezvous with his company. On our arrival I recognized, with exultant joy, the features of the landscape which had attracted the doctor's attention. We now led the way with complete assurance, and came at length to the crater down whose side Mona had so strangely led us. The wind was not so strong now, but I was none the less eager to descend and enter that dark way, at the other end of which such happiness awaited me. By this time, also, the whole party were becoming enthused over the situation. When they came to see, one after another, features which they had heard us describe, they acquired a personal interest which had been impossible before, and everyone began to share my faith in regard to Mona.

As we entered the tunnel, the doctor and myself still in the lead, I called Avis and asked her to keep as near me as possible.

"I am flattered," she said, "but what do you want to have me do?"

"Sing," I answered.

"What for? You needn't be afraid of the dark, for we can give you light enough."

And at that instant out flashed half a dozen lamps from different members of the party, a timely illustration of the use of their portable electricity.

"No, Avis," I said, "I am not afraid, but I would like to recall something of the sensation of our first descent into the moon, when we were led, as you know, by the sound of beautiful music. And then, as we near the end, Mona may hear you, and that would be a more gentle introduction than if we should burst upon her unannounced. I know she is not subject to fear or the usual emotions to which I have been accustomed on the earth, but still I think she would like to have us come back to her heralded by your noble song."

Seeing how serious I was in the matter, Avis promised to do as I wished, only suggesting that all the rest should join her from time to time. So, without any unpleasant incident, we traversed the long passage, walking rapidly by the aid of the light and conversing about our interesting situation. It was a rare and pleasing experience for the doctor and me to be showing these wise Martians something new, and we enjoyed the novel sensation of watching their excitement. The fact that we could so satisfactorily entertain our friends after their own fashion with us was something long to be remembered.

But not another one of all the company had the intensity of feeling which filled my breast. Knowing that every downward step was leading me rapidly toward a determination of my fate, I could scarcely control my emotions. Either I was soon to find my heart's life and be raised to the highest pinnacle of happiness, or I was to undergo a disappointment from which I might not recover. For if Mona was not here, where could I look for her? Could I ever regain my hopeful spirits if I should lose her now? I tried to crowd out these dark forebodings by thinking of my love and trying to picture the scene in the midst of which we should discover her.

At length we were drawing near the end. The path was growing wider, which proved to the doctor and me that we should soon emerge into the open village. Indeed, a faint gleam of light was beginning to be seen far in the front. We now pushed on more rapidly, and as we approached the exit Avis was singing at her highest pitch. She stopped suddenly, and then a low and distant strain came to us, sweet even to the ears of our cultured friends from Mars. My heart beat wildly as Thorwald, who was close behind us, exclaimed:

"Hark, hear the echo!"

"Ho!" I cried, "that's not an echo. That's the original, and Avis is the echo. Sing out again, Avis."

A loud, clear note trembled on the air, and brought back to our straining sense, not a repetition of itself but a snatch of varied melody which showed it to be no echo, although evidently an answer. There have been few moments in my life more crowded with happiness than that one. And it was not a passive feeling of enjoyment, but one that spurred me to action. The swift pace which we had all by this time reached was now too slow for me. Seized again by the same fierce passion which took possession of me at my first acquaintance with Mona's voice, I started in her direction on a run, flinging aside everything that might impede me, so overmastered was I by my desire to see her.

But my unreasonable haste brought me a grievous reward. I leaped over the ground with great rapidity for a few minutes, and then, stepping on a treacherous stone, turned my ankle and fell heavily to the ground, my head, thrust forward in running, being the first point of contact with the cruel rocks.

I returned to consciousness by degrees. My faithful ears were, as usual, the first friends to renew acquaintance with me, and the sound they brought was so soothing that I wished for nothing more than to remain as I was, ears only, and listen to it forever. But this was impossible, as I was slowly recovering my other senses and becoming a thinking being once more. I now recognized the pleasant sound as the music of a familiar voice; yes, it was Mona's voice in conversation. I was sure of that, but it seemed so natural that I was not startled. I felt that I must remain perfectly quiet, or the spell would be broken and the music cease. Then I began to wonder where I was and who were with me. I recalled the circumstances of our descent into the moon and my fall as I was running to meet Mona. My mind was active, but I feared that I was physically weak, for I did not seem to have even a desire to move. I wanted to see the face of the dear girl, and it is remarkable that I did not open my eyes at once and call her by name. But I was not in a natural state. The feeling was not sufficiently strong to move me to action. I was just conscious enough to be passively happy, content to lie there quietly and enjoy one thing at a time.

Hitherto I had not tried to distinguish the words, so satisfied was I with the exquisite tones, but now my attention was compelled by this yellow expression:

"So I understand you to say he would not give me up as lost?"

It was the pink voice of Zenith that answered:

"No, indeed. He never faltered in his faith that you would be found. You owe it to him that you can soon leave this worn-out world with us, and we are indebted to him for giving us such a dear friend."

"And he admired my singing?" said Mona in a questioning tone.

"Yes, and everything pertaining to you. He never tired of rehearsing your perfections, and the doctor tells us he loved you from the very first. He certainly seems most devoted to you. I hope, my dear, that you love him."

I was now recovered enough to feel some compunctions about listening further to this conversation, but that is not saying that I had any great desire to stop listening. I knew that in Mona's answer to Zenith's implied question lay my fate, and my moral doubts were not strong enough to make me do anything to keep it back. It has been said on the earth that people who surreptitiously hear themselves spoken of are never pleased, but things must be quite different inside the moon, for, without a shadow of hesitation and in the sweetest air that ever floated from her lips, came Mona's answer:

"Love him? Certainly I love him. Why should I not? I loved him when he was here before, and I should be very ungrateful if I did not care a great deal more for him when I know what he has done for me, and that he now lies here suffering for my sake."

"Oh, Mona," I said to myself, "if this be suffering, let me never know happiness."

Zenith began to speak again, when she was interrupted by the opening of a door. I heard someone walk towards me, and then the doctor's voice broke the silence.

"How is he, Mona? Is there any change?"

"No," replied my beloved, "he hasn't stirred nor shown a sign of consciousness. Cannot something more be done for him?"

I was becoming a little hardened in my guilt by this time, and, although my strength seemed now to be returning to me, I decided to keep still yet longer and hear what words of wisdom the doctor would utter on my case.

"I know of nothing that can be done," he said. "He received no injury except the wound on his head, and that, apparently, is not serious. Time is the great healer in such cases. My chief fear is that when he recovers consciousness we will find his memory is defective, as it was after his plunge into your ocean, Zenith. He will doubtless forget how we ever got into this strange place, and I am almost sure he will not recognize Mona, for that was the direction in which he failed before."

"But you forget," said Zenith, "that Mona herself will be here to sing for him."

"I fear not even that will recall his wandering wits this time. You know he is more badly hurt than before. I dislike to cause you pain, Mona, but I must be frank and tell you that our friend will probably never know you again."

One would naturally expect Mona to have burst into tears at this hopeless prospect, but instead of that she sang out, as joyously as ever:

"Never mind me, Doctor. Only restore him to health and happiness, and it will be of little moment whether he remembers me or not. No one knows better than you do that I am always happy, that's why I am singing all the time."

Such unselfishness as this was more than I could appreciate, and rather more, I thought, than was called for by the circumstances. How could she love me so, and still not care if I never were to know her again? Was she the same Mona, after all, who had so provokingly eluded my love during my former visit? These reflections caused me to decide to come to life, and claim her as mine before she resigned all her interest in me.

So, opening my eyes and looking in her face, I said, as quietly as possible:

"I do remember you, dear Mona, and shall never forget you. Doctor, you see your science has proved false again."

"And glad indeed I am that it has," he rejoined, "since it is so greatly to our advantage."

Then they all gathered around me, and called the others to a general rejoicing over my sudden recovery. My physical injury was but slight, and it was not long before my stupor was entirely gone and I was moving about again. Aside from the finding of Mona, many other things in this place of her abode interested the different members of our party. All were jubilant over the new opportunities for study and investigation, and they promised themselves the pleasure of many more visits to the place in the future. They had now seen enough for once, and all wanted to join in the agreeable task of escorting Mona to Mars and introducing her there. So, without more delay, we ascended to the surface once more, found our air ships in good order, and soon sailed away, leaving the moon without an inhabitant.

Our friends from the antipodes landed with us, and remained some days before reembarking for home.

During our voyage down there was a general agreement to give me plenty of opportunity to remain in Mona's immediate company, though no one seemed to think we need feel at all embarrassed when our conversation was overheard by others.

"Mona," I said, "were you glad to see our relief party when they arrived?"

"I was indeed," she replied, "and yet I was as happy as a bird, living there all by myself and singing for my own amusement the whole day long."

"It is an astonishing thing to me," I continued, "that after the doctor and I had left you so unceremoniously you could go back to your lonely home and be happy there."

"Why, did you think I would mourn for you?"

"Well, yes, I think that would be natural, considering something I know."

"Oh, I should like to hear what you know."

"If I tell you, I shall have to make a confession."

"What is a confession, and how can you make one? Have you anything to make it of?"

"Oh, yes," I replied, laughing. "A confession is an acknowledgment that one has done something wrong, and should be made to the person to whom the wrong has been done."

"Well," said Mona, "if that is it, I am sure I shall never have to make one, for I have never done anything wrong."

This agreed so well with my conception of her that I did not then take in the full meaning of her words, but said in reply:

"But I have, and this is one thing when you were talking to Zenith about me and thought I was unconscious I was recovering, and lay quite still so as to hear what you said."

"And did I say anything to displease you?"

"No, indeed; you said you loved me, and it made me very happy."

"Oh, I remember now. Zenith said she hoped I loved you, and I told her I did. I have always loved you, of course, but I don't see how that can make you happy."

"That's singular," I answered. "I should think you would understand my feeling from your own. But never mind. You and I will be lovers from this time forth, and give the people of Mars an example of devotion worth considering, will we not?"

"You do make the funniest speeches," she replied. "I don't know half the time what you mean. But I am getting tired of sitting so long. Here is Antonia. You talk to her about love, and I'll go over and see Foedric."

The lightness of her manner, when I was so deeply in earnest, gave me a feeling of uneasiness, which was increased when I saw her easy, familiar way with Foedric and heard her merry song as she chatted with him. I was not very pleasant company for Antonia, for I could not prevent a return of that dreadful jealousy. I wondered if this was always to be the history of my wooing—an hour of the supremest happiness, followed so speedily by a period of such anguish. I could not possibly talk on any other subject, and so I said to Antonia:

"They seem well pleased with each other's society. Are you not afraid Foedric will lose his heart to her?"

"My friend," she replied, "we never even think of such things as that. I hope you are not serious in asking the question."

"Forgive me, Antonia," I answered; "I hardly know what I am saying."

And then I rose and followed Mona, and said to her when I came near:

"Well, my dear, what do you and Foedric find so pleasant to talk about?"

"Why, you see," she replied, "Foedric was the first one to find me after you were hurt, and has been very kind to me since, and I have just been telling him I love him. You said it made you happy to hear me say it to you, and I wanted to make him happy too. And then I wanted to see if Foedric would make such funny speeches as you did."

I controlled myself enough to ask:

"And what did Foedric say?"

"Why, his answer made me laugh more than yours did. He said it would make you unhappy to know I had said such a thing to him. I replied that I would tell you myself, and that you were always happy when I said anything to you; and then you came up just in time."

"Now, Mona, do you think it is right to make sport of such a serious matter?"

"I assure you I am in earnest in all I have said."

"Then are you trying to deceive Foedric?"

"Deceive him? What is that?"

"Telling him what isn't true."

"No, indeed. I would never do that."

"It is true, then, that you love him?"

"Certainly it is; isn't it, Foedric?"

I did not wait for Foedric to answer, but continued:

"And still a short time ago you said you loved me."

"Well, is that any wonder, after what you have done for me?"

"But do you love us both at once?"

"I do."

"And do you love Foedric as much as you do me?"

"Certainly. Why shouldn't I? And now let me ask you a question. Do you love me?"

"With all my heart."

"Then why do you bother me so, asking all these questions, and saying things I don't understand? You appear to be surprised to find that I love Foedric. Why, I love everybody. What am I going to do, if I cannot love people as much as I want to?"

"You shall, Mona," I replied, with a sudden softening of my heart toward her. "I was only going to suggest that, if you love Foedric, Antonia may not like you so well."

Foedric began to protest that Antonia would not care, but Mona went right on with:

"Another complication. What possible difference could it make to Antonia?"

"Why, Antonia and Foedric love each other, you know."

"Oh, they love each other, and therefore no one else can love either of them. Is that it? But you have just been talking with Antonia. Don't you love her?"

"Oh, no," I replied hastily. "Or, at any rate, not in the same way that I love you."

"Not in the same way. That's another remark that I can't see any sense in. I must say for myself that I have but one way in which to love, and that is with my whole heart, without reserve or qualification. I cannot parcel out my love, a little to one, a little more to another, and so on. It all goes out to everyone. I couldn't be happy if I should try to restrain it. I think it must be like this delicious sunlight, which I am just beginning to enjoy, an equal comfort to all who choose to partake of it. I love you dearly. What can I do more? If I love others, I am not robbing you—take all you want, and then there will be just as much left."

"Mona," I asked, as she finished, "where did you get such a heart? You are showing me how utterly selfish I have been."

"Good-by," she exclaimed; "I am going back to Antonia. May I love her?"

"You may love everybody," I answered, as she left me with an exquisite note on her lips.

Foedric and I fell into conversation about her. Foedric praised her to the skies, saying that, if this were a fair specimen, the inhabitants of the moon must have been a remarkable people, and that it was unfortunate that they had so nearly passed from the stage.

When I found opportunity to think over the situation I concluded that I had given my heart to a peculiar being, and what had I received in return? She loved me—that was certain. But what kind of love was this, which had no respect to persons? I knew I could claim no exclusive right to the least corner of her heart, and yet she said: "All my heart is yours. What more can you ask?" I was not able to solve the riddle of her mysterious nature, but as I heard her tuneful voice and watched her beautiful face as she talked with Antonia, the very picture of innocent happiness, I realized with great intensity that I loved her more than ever. And I resolved to be patient, and try to lead her gradually into the way of loving which prevailed on the earth at the time we left it.

In due time we landed on the ruddy planet, and there was great diversion for us all in seeing Mona's continued astonishment and in hearing her varied song.

It seemed almost like home to enter Thorwald's house again, where we found everything just as we had left it. The children did not exhibit any astonishment at our long absence, but were glad to see us back and eager to hear about our adventures.

The next morning after our arrival Thorwald gave us a long ride in an electric carriage to show Mona the country. Returning, we took her about the large house and were all delighted to hear her naive remarks. At length Zenith asked Thorwald if he could not think of something that would interest us all.



CHAPTER XXIV.

THE PICTURE TELEGRAPH.

"Let us step into the music room," said Thorwald. "Doctor, what acquaintance have you with the telephone?"

"We think we have brought the telephone to a considerable degree of perfection," said the doctor. "At first it was rather crude, and many preferred to forego its use in order to escape its annoyances. But of recent years great improvements have been made, until its employment is now a pleasure, as well as an essential help in our business and social life."

"Does it minister to any other sense than the hearing?"

"It does not, although I have seen a vague promise somewhere of an invention by which we could see an image of the person we were speaking to."

"If that is all, I shall be able to give you a pleasant surprise," pursued Thorwald. "Just sit in those chairs, and do nothing but keep your eyes open and listen."

We saw him arrange a series of long panels, in which were elegant mirrors, and then, as he gently pulled an ivory knob, there fell upon our ears, very faintly, like distant echoes, strains of the most delicious music. Gradually the tones became louder and more defined, and Zenith, with a quick smile and glance, directed our attention to the opposite side of the room. There our wondering eyes beheld the orchestra with whose notes we were then enchanted. There must have been a hundred players or more, and we seemed to be looking upon them from a distance which would bring the whole group within the bounds of the room. It was not a picture thrown on a screen, but was as if the musicians were actually present. Every motion made with their instruments was in exact accord with the accompanying note, and, wherever this orchestra might have its local habitation, it was certainly playing before our little audience that morning.

As the selection ended the scene faded away under the manipulation of Thorwald, and in a moment the room was filled with a harmony of voices such as I had never heard on the earth. And now the great chorus appeared, crowding this time three sides of the apartment and rising, tier on tier, to the ceiling. We could see the glad faces of the singers and knew how they must be enjoying their work. Brilliant solo parts burst out from one side and the other, and again from the middle throng, but it was impossible to tell from what individual singers these notes came.

When this scene, too, had passed and the music, all too soon, had ceased, Thorwald made haste to answer the inquiry he saw in our faces by saying:

"These concerts are now being given in two cities, both of them several thousand miles east of here, so far that it is now afternoon there. If we desire music after dinner this evening we can make connection with some city west of us, and by going farther west we can invoke sweet sounds to soothe us to sleep. Being connected with all the musical centers, you can see how, by trying either one direction or the other, we can have something worth hearing at any hour of the day or night, with the players and singers themselves employed, of course, only in the daytime. We have daily programmes of every concert sent us by telephone. They are received here, you see, and printed automatically on these sheets."

Zenith had watched us with eager interest during this marvelous exhibition. It was a novel experience, for they had never before had the opportunity of showing this perfected invention to those entirely ignorant of it, and they both enjoyed seeing the pleasure which must have beamed from our faces. I wanted to say something, but could think of nothing fit for the occasion, and was relieved to hear the doctor speak:

"My good friends," said he, "do not try to show us anything beyond this or we shall lose our mental balance. I believe in fairyland now, for I have just come from there. I never paid much attention to music on the earth, and did not feel any shame for it either, but I am now sure it will be to my everlasting disgrace if I neglect it another day."

This speech pleased Zenith exceedingly, and her emotion made her voice and manner more charming than ever as she said:

"If you stay with us, Doctor, you shall have plenty of good music, and you will soon become not only a music lover but a music maker, for every Martian is proficient in this art."

"Do you think," asked the doctor, "that there is the faintest hope that the earthly music will ever reach the high standard of that we have just heard?"

"Thorwald has told me something of your history," Zenith replied, "and I share his strong faith in your happy destiny. It seems to me that your race is equal to any achievement you have witnessed here, and even greater things, but it will take much time. Such changes are very slow. As for us, we hope we are still making advancement in music. We have few higher employments, and hardly one in which we are more entirely engrossed. It was given to us at an early stage of our development, and all through our troubled course music has been one of the chief influences for good. It has helped to keep hope alive during the darkest periods of our history, and has always been a mighty incentive toward a higher spiritual state. As your race advances I am sure you will realize more and more the beauty and value of this art, heaven-born and exhaustless."

We all smiled at Zenith's happy assurance that the earth was on the upward path, and Thorwald said:

"You see hope is contagious. But as we have been through all your present troubles and have triumphed over them, it is perhaps easier for us to believe in you than for you to believe in yourselves.

"And now, should you like to see how the telephone works in every-day matters?"

On our replying in the affirmative, Thorwald turned a switch, waited a moment, turned it again, and then there appeared before our eyes a familiar object, nothing less than the ship in which we had made our recent voyage. A number of the men, whom we recognized, were walking about the deck, and one stood apart, near the side of the vessel, conversing with Thorwald, the words of both being audible to us. When they were through, the scene faded away and Thorwald said:

"As soon as the ship reached its dock connection was made with the general system of wires, and the instrument, which is stationed near the place where the man was standing, was ready for use.

"So, whenever we desire to talk to our friends, we summon them to our presence. You see it is not necessary to speak directly into the transmitter. We can sit comfortably in our chairs and converse as easily as when our friends are actually present."

"Let me ask you, Thorwald," said the doctor, "how all the electricity you use is generated? The immense quantity you employ must necessitate a great deal of power to produce it. Is there a huge plant in every city driven by steam?"

"No," answered Thorwald. "We make no use of steam in these days. All the power we need is obtained from natural waterfalls and rapids. This power, which nature has placed ready made at our hand, is so abundant that it can never be exhausted."

"These waterfalls must fortunately be well distributed," remarked the doctor.

"Not more so, I presume, than on the earth," Thorwald made answer. "Every stream that runs in its bed has in it a power proportioned to the volume of water and the swiftness of its current. Think of the amount of water wasted every day in this way—no, not wasted, but unused. We do not need, however, to utilize ordinary streams, as there are enough great falls where power is transformed into electricity to be sent over wires to any distance required. In every city or district large storage facilities are provided from which power can be obtained for all possible purposes. Our beds of coal and wells of oil were long since exhausted, but while rain falls and water runs this power can never fail us.

"Doctor, what is the best metal you have for transmitting electricity?"

"Copper," answered my companion. "Silver is a little better conductor, and a new metal, called glucinium, is better still, but both of these are too expensive for general use. Our telegraph and telephone wires were formerly made of iron for the sake of economy, but copper is now used for these lines, as well as for distributing electricity on a large scale. The copper wire now commonly used for the telegraph has a resistance of something like four ohms to the mile."

"You are making good progress," said Thorwald. "But we have a metal of such good conducting qualities that, without making the wire too large for convenient use, we have reduced the resistance to an ohm to the mile."

"That is an exceedingly valuable metal," the doctor said. "And now let me ask you a practical question. You say you draw your electricity for a thousand and one uses from a large storage plant in each city. Do you pay for it by the kilowatt, or how is it measured?"

"We ask for so many watts or kilowatts, and it is also measured by the watt hour. But are you serious in asking if we pay for it?"

"Why, you surely do not mean it is given away," exclaimed the doctor, "after all the expense connected with producing and transmitting it."

"Yes, I mean that whatever quantity we want to use is ours for the asking. Before we could buy it some one would have to own it, and that could never be. Besides, how could we buy anything without money?"

"What! No money either?" broke in the doctor again. "Well, if you can get along without money, that accounts in my mind for much of your happiness. Just think of that," continued the doctor, turning to me, "to be forever rid of money and all the trouble it brings."

"Of what value would it be to us?" asked Thorwald. "We could not use it."

"Some of our people on the earth," replied the doctor, "have oceans of it which they cannot use, and still they seem to think it is of much value. It is an inherent characteristic of our race to love the mere possession of money or other property, and human nature must change a great deal before we can begin to reach the exalted moral condition which you now enjoy, to say nothing of your spiritual state."

"Your nature will change," said Thorwald, "and do not doubt that the change has already begun. Time is what you need, and there is time enough for everything."

After the midday lunch had been served we were invited to take a walk about the grounds. As the doctor and I were admiring the beautiful lawns and gorgeous beds of flowers, and then stood enraptured at the sight of the noble mansion itself, Zenith watched us eagerly, and finally said, with a smile:

"You discovered my favorite department of art this morning. Now is a good time to learn what Thorwald's is."

"Judging from what we have already seen and heard of your husband," said I, "it seems to me he must be an astronomer, or, if not that, then a theological professor."

"If he has been talking to you on either of those subjects," she returned, "I have no doubt he told you things worth taking home with you, but his pet topics of study are architecture and its sister art, landscape gardening. This house is a creature of his brain, and all the artistic effects in color and pattern, which I know you have the taste to admire, are of his designing."

The simple, unaffected manner in which Zenith showed her pride in her husband's achievements was refreshing, and the knowledge she imparted only added still more to our high appreciation of our friend.

It was now time for Thorwald to speak, and he remarked quietly:

"It is true that I love architecture. It is another occupation of which we can never tire and whose resources we can never fathom. A beautiful, dignified, and truly artistic building is one of the highest possible products of our civilization, and such work brings out all the poetic feeling in one's nature, just as the production of a fine painting or piece of sculpture does. These arts, and literature as well, all have their special devotees among us, but everyone knows enough of all arts to appreciate and enjoy good work in every department.

"We build truthfully, and this helps to make what we build beautiful, for truth is beautiful wherever it is found; and beauty is an object to be sought after for its own sake, an enjoyable thing well worth striving for. Religion and art, using both those terms in a comprehensive sense, have worked together, through all our history, to lift up our souls and fit them for higher and higher duties."

"Thorwald," said Zenith, "I think our friends would enjoy seeing some of our imposing buildings and other works of art while this subject is before them."

That this was not a suggestion that we should start on an extended tour of the country was proved by Thorwald, who said:

"Very well, we will then go into the music room again, if you please."

Here we were shown, by the new powers of the telephone, a bewildering succession of the grandest structures our imagination could picture: churches and cathedrals, college buildings, observatories, museums, music halls and private residences. These were not like pictures or views; but the structures themselves, in full perspective and in all the richness of their coloring, seemed to stand before us. Trees waving in the breeze, people and carriages passing in the streets and occasionally a movement at a window or door, all aided the illusion and made it difficult to realize that we were not in the midst of the scenes we were gazing upon.

Thorwald or Zenith told us the name or purpose of each building as it appeared, and the novel exhibition closed with the presentation of a large and splendid playhouse.

As this was announced I involuntarily exclaimed:

"So you have kept the theater, have you? Some good people on the earth think the drama is demoralizing."

"That," said Zenith, "is probably because you have allowed it to become debased. We read in our histories of such a period here. Indeed, for a long time both the play and the opera were abolished, our advancing civilization having given them up under the impression that the good in them was overbalanced by the evil. But when the era of a more noble personal character had come the drama was revived, and now is not only a source of innocent pleasure but is also a decided help to our growth.

"I recognize the house we are now looking at. It is in quite a distant city, and I see Thorwald has purposely chosen it because at this moment an able company is presenting there one of our most popular plays. Would you like to hear some of it?"

No sooner were these words uttered than we saw Thorwald make a slight movement of the switch, and, lo! the scene was changed to the interior of the building, and there before us was the Martian theater in full play. We sat as it were in the dress circle, with the orchestra and stage in our front. All was beauty and life around us, and the richness and harmonious coloring of the whole interior were simply beyond description. The play was going on in a quiet, dignified manner and every word and gesture were characterized with the greatest naturalness. It struck the doctor and me as a peculiar feature that, while we could hear everything that was said on the stage and even the rustle of the people around us, we ourselves could talk and laugh without being noticed. This effect was produced by an ingenious attachment to the telephone, and the doctor was moved to remark:

"This is an altogether comfortable and satisfactory situation."

"Yes," added Zenith, "we think it is almost as good as being actually present in the theater."

We assured her it was better, in our opinion, and then we thanked them both for the pleasure they had given us. But we began to think their resources for entertaining their friends would never be exhausted when Thorwald told us he would, at some future time, show us specimens of their paintings, sculpture, fine porcelain, elegant furniture, and many other works of art.

One morning, a few days later, as we were rising from breakfast, Thorwald said:

"Well, my friends, I suppose you will go to church with us to-day?"

"To church?" asked we in one breath.

"Yes, this is Sunday."

"Oh, is it?" I said. "I began to think you didn't have Sunday here. It is now eight days since our return from the moon, and this is the first we have heard of it."

"Let me see," said Thorwald, "I believe this is the first Sunday we have spent at home since you came to us."

"Then how long is your week?"

"Ten days."

"That accounts for our misunderstanding," I said, "for our Sunday comes every seventh day."

"That is an odd number," returned Thorwald. "With us the week is the basis of our decimal method of reckoning. We have one hundred minutes in an hour and ten hours in a day."

Of course we were ready to go to church, and when we were on the way, seated in a comfortable carriage, the doctor said to Thorwald:

"If for any reason you do not care to go out on Sunday, I suppose you can all repair to your music room, turn that little switch, and listen to the best preacher and the best church music in the land. But do not imagine by that remark that we have any fault to find with this method of going to church. For my part, I think I prefer it."

"I perceive," answered Thorwald, "that you have a good idea of the capabilities of the telephone, but I shall have to correct you in this case. Our instruments are not connected with any of the churches. But to-morrow we can get, by asking through the telephone, phonograph rolls of any sermons that are delivered to-day. If we preferred we could get them in print, but the phonograph is pleasanter. This instrument is now so perfect that the imitation of the speaker's words and tones is faultless. The works of all our authors can be obtained in this form, and our libraries consist in great part of phonograph rolls. Even the poets of former generations speak to us, and the voice of the singer adds its charm to the song.

"But you will want to ask me why we do not extend the use of the telephone to the churches. We learned long ago that it is a good thing for people to come together for worship and that nothing will take the place of it. We do not go for an intellectual treat nor to enjoy the music, but only for worship, and we try to keep our forms simple yet dignified and as fitting as possible in all ways. Some day I must tell you through what difficulties we have passed in church ceremonies and church government."



CHAPTER XXV.

AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER.

It was delightful to live in the same world with Mona, not for me only but for every one who knew her. No one could help loving her; there was simply nothing else to do. Others did not make as much show of their affection as I did, perhaps because no one else was selfish enough to claim the same personal rights in her, but I found every new acquaintance she made succumbed to the power of her many charms. The secret of this general homage was her own loving nature, which just worked itself out spontaneously, but the more her love was shed abroad the more she retained for new-comers. At first my naturally jealous disposition continued to give me long hours of anguish, but I happily was able to overcome this to a great extent as I became better acquainted with her marvelous spirit.

Although I was at that time too much under the spell of this fair creature to form an unprejudiced judgment of her, I have since then attempted something of the kind, in comparing her in my mind with Antonia and others whom we met in Mars. Let me say that the Martians are not a perfect race. With our undeveloped spiritual natures we could not, during our entire visit, see any imperfections in them; but, as will be seen further on in this narrative, our good friends Thorwald and Zenith, under whose instructions kind fortune had placed us, were particular to tell us that their race had reached only an advanced state of civilization, to which the earth might one day attain, and that perfection was still a dream of the future. Taking Antonia, then, as a representative of her kind, I can see that she had a solidly formed character. She was what she was, not because she could not help it but because she herself willed it. That is, when she might have done wrong she chose to do right. Her connection with temptation was not entirely through her remote ancestors, whose sins filled such a large page in their history, but she herself had felt drawings toward evil. Yet so slightly had she yielded, and so strongly had her right years of living buttressed her against all kinds of wrong, that she, as well as all of her race whom we saw, appeared to us about perfect. Theoretically she might transgress, but practically it was all but impossible. Hers, then, was a truly noble character, and when she gave her love to Foedric he had good reason to be proud of the gift. Nor did she defraud others of their due, but her heart was open to every proper call.

Such was Antonia, one whom we could in some degree appreciate, although so far above us. But how could we understand a being like Mona, who told us, and we saw no reason to disbelieve her, that she had never known what it was to do wrong? She seemed as incapable of evil as the birds of the air, or, to make the comparison still stronger, as a beautiful rose. She was guileless by nature, and goodness and truth were as much a part of her as her beauty was. She was made to be a joy and comfort to every creature brought within the circle of her influence, and she could no more help loving than the sun can help shining. All who came near her received a share of her gracious beams.

She was unselfish and full of sympathy and every right feeling, not because she had seen the evils of selfishness and meanness, but because these latter qualities were utterly unknown to her. Her high character and perfectly correct life, therefore, were not the result of reason and choice, but were the instinctive manifestations of her pure nature.

I do not undertake to say which of these two presented the higher type of womanhood, and I certainly entered into no such speculations about them at that time, but I never had any difficulty in deciding that Mona was the one I loved. I did not, of course, relish her fondness for others. In that respect I considered her nature altogether too ardent, but I found I must get accustomed to it, as she would not change.

It made me quite despondent at times, fearing I could never lead her to feel any special liking for me. Then when she smiled upon me and sang so sweetly to me, I thought I ought to be happy though I had to share her heart with all the world. Still I did not relax my efforts to make my share larger.

"Mona," I said, one day, "I wish you would ask me to do something real hard for you."

"Why?" she asked.

"So that I could show you how much I love you."

"But you have already shown me," she said. "I cannot think of anything more difficult than you have done. Did you not keep up a firm belief that I would be found, even after the doctor and these wise men of Mars had lost all hope, and did you not, by your enthusiasm, prevail on them to enter on a difficult search for me on the moon? I have heard all about your deep concern for me and how you were affected by hearing singing which you thought was like mine. And now that I have been found, you are so watchful for my comfort and like to be so near me all the time, that I am sure I do not need any further proof of your strong attachment. But why do you pay me so much attention? Why do you not like to be with Antonia as much as with me?"

"Because I do not love her as much as I do you."

"Why do you love me so? Because I took you down to my quiet home and saved you from being blown off the top of the moon?"

"No, the doctor and I are both grateful to you for that kindness, but gratitude isn't love."

"I haven't done anything else for you," she said.

"It isn't for anything you have done that I love you."

"What then?"

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose it is because I can't help it."

"Oh, then you are becoming like me, for I can't help loving everybody."

"I shall never be good enough for that," said I.

"What is love, as you understand it?" asked Mona.

"Love—love," I hesitated; "why, it is the feeling I have in my heart for you. Love is what kept hope alive when you were lost and gave me such joy when I heard your voice and knew we had found you. Love makes every task light that is done for you and every place where you are the brightest spot in the universe. Even this delightful world of Mars is more beautiful than ever because you are here. Love, if mutual, is a precious bond, uniting two hearts and making them beat in harmony. Cannot you and I be joined in heart, Mona?"

"My dear friend," she replied, "I am very sorry I cannot share your feeling, but I do not understand such love as you have been trying to describe."

"Then I fear you do not love me," I responded, with great sadness in my voice.

"Oh, don't say that," she exclaimed. "Indeed I do love you. Now, how can I prove it to you? What is the opposite of love?"

"Hatred; or, in such a case as this, indifference would be about as bad as anything."

"Well, I don't know much about such things, but do I seem like a person who could hate you or be indifferent to you?"

"No, Mona, you seem to be the most loving creature in all the worlds we have ever known, but—"

"Oh, do not spoil that fine speech with a 'but.' I know what you want to say. You think I ought to love you more than anyone else, or in some different way. Now, that desire of yours is what I cannot understand. I love everybody alike because I know of no other sentiment. So it is a matter of course with me, and I do not feel obliged to tell people that I love them. You seem to make too much of it, coming to me everyday and telling me, over and over again, that you love me, just as if I doubted it. Why do you like to be with me so much? Do you think it is right to be so exclusive? You ought to favor the others with your company. As for me, I must say I prefer Foedric's society to yours, because he has so many interesting things to talk about, while you stick continually to one subject and give me little information even on that one. You know I am a new-comer here and eager to learn all I can. Then there's the doctor. I take more pleasure conversing with him than with you, for he seems to know more, or, at any rate, to be more able to tell me things I want to know about the earth. If the doctor were not here and you were the only one to judge from, I should be obliged to think the people of the earth a very curious race. Your companion, however, appears to be a man of considerable sense."

Mona sang all this in her easy, natural way, being perfectly free from any intention of wounding my feelings, but the more innocent I believed her the more incapable I saw she was of entering into my feelings. I began to realize how, in loving everybody, she missed a certain enjoyment derived from a more selfish order of love. It then occurred to me that a world full of such people as Mona must have rather a monotonous time from our point of view, and I asked her if she could tell me about her race in general respecting the subject of our conversation.

"Certainly," she replied, "I can tell you something from my own recollections, but more from our traditions."

"Well, were the men of the moon all sensible, or were they all like me?"

"Oh, I see you have a little sense as soon as you begin to talk in a new direction. In answer to your question, let me say that the stress you have put on our personal relations is something entirely new to me, and I do not see any use or advantage in it. This must be my excuse for speaking so plainly. I should not have spoken so had I not known, in spite of what I have said, that you had too much sense to be offended."

"I thank you," I said. "Do not apologize for your words. I have taken them as a needed rebuke for my haste in appropriating you to myself. But I believe, Mona, that the time will come when you will know the happiness of loving one person so much that your love for all others will not be thought of in comparison. Happy will he be who, in that day, is able to prove the capacity of your great heart."

"Then, in that day," she responded, "shall I prove myself to be the degenerate daughter of a noble race. No, my friend, we were not made of such stuff. We loved everybody, without question and without limit. We could do nothing else, and to love one more than another was therefore impossible."

"Let me ask if everyone was worthy of being loved?"

"Why, as to that, we were all alike. What do you think of me?"

"You know what I think of you, Mona; or, if you do not, I will tell you."

"Yes; you needn't tell me again. What I wanted to say is, that I am no better than the rest of my people were."

"What a world it must have been then," I exclaimed, "and how fortunate that the earth did not discover it earlier. With such an example before us we should have been utterly discouraged."