"When I speak of zeal, however, you must understand that this quality was confined to a few people. Nearly all were only half-hearted Christians at the best, doing something, to be sure, but not at all alive to the grand opportunity of bringing the world to the feet of the Savior. Only here and there was one found who was ready to give himself unselfishly to the work, and the amount of money given to advance the cause of Christ, at home and abroad, was small indeed compared to that spent in luxurious living and hurtful indulgences.

"At the same time, it was an age of progress. The ordinary span of life was long enough to show improvement in many ways, and men, seeing the rapid advancement the world was making, took courage and looked forward more confidently for the dawn of a brighter day. Religion was beginning to be more of an every-day matter, and Christians were coming to a faint realization of the real value of the gospel in its adaptation to all the needs of men. Care for the body, better ways of living, and right conduct toward others were all taught, as well as duty to God, and society began to feel the benefit of such sensible teaching."



CHAPTER XXXVI.

VANQUISHED AGAIN BY A VOICE.

We all hoped Mona's affliction would prove temporary, but after a number of days had passed, and no improvement appeared, Thorwald had an expert anatomist come to the house and make an examination of the organs of her throat. Although this was a new way in which to apply his skill, as the Martians of that era were all physically perfect, he thought he might be able to discover the cause of the trouble. The result of this experiment was somewhat reassuring, for our scientist told us there was no defect of organ or injury to any part, closing his report with the remark that the case presented the greatest mystery of the kind he had ever encountered. My companion, the doctor, now expressed his opinion, which coincided with my own. This was, that Mona's trouble was occasioned by the shock to her nervous system when she was plunged into the water, an element which she so much dreaded. Our good friends, including the expert, were utterly unable to understand the meaning of this theory. The remark that Zenith made was:

"Why, but for our friend, and others who pry into these things for us, we would never know we had any nerves."

"Happy will our race be," responded the doctor, "when it arrives at the same blissful ignorance."

"Well," continued Zenith, "if your opinion is the correct one, what have we to hope for in Mona's case?"

"Unfortunately," answered the doctor, "we have no experience to teach us what to expect. We can only hope with you that she may speedily recover her voice, which has seemed to form such a great part of her, and has given us all so much delight."

Perhaps it was imagination, but it seemed to me that Mona's behavior toward me was more affectionate than it had formerly been. She had told me before, to be sure, that she had loved me with all her heart, but in these latter days she appeared to seek my society more and to show other indications that her love was assuming more of the personal element for which I had once so assiduously sought. But how was it with myself? This question forced itself on me, one day, and I was a little startled to find that an answer did not spring up spontaneously. Was it possible that my love was becoming cold? I would not admit it. Just as the poor girl had lost her chief attraction, should I turn from her and forget all my former professions? On the first suspicion that such might possibly be my desire, I said it was a wicked thought and I should never let it be true. But even if I could not force my heart to remain faithful, no one should ever know it but myself.

A little more time elapsed and I discovered that, in spite of my brave resolutions, Mona, silent, was filling less and less of my thoughts, and that I was living on the precious memory of her lost voice. But this discovery did not shake my determination ever to be to Mona herself a true and faithful lover.

At this juncture I was sitting alone, one morning, going over in my mind the strange vicissitudes of my love affair, when, in a far-distant part of the house, I heard a sound which thrilled me. I stopped all motion and listened, my heart, however, trembling with the fear of a disappointment. The music, for it was sweet music to me, came nearer, and now I could not be mistaken. What joy filled my heart! How impossible to forget that voice! I sat still and let it come. She evidently knew where I was and was coming to find me, pouring forth her heart in the way she knew I adored. Where now were my fears that my heart was growing cold toward her? Could it be possible that I had ever doubted my affection for her since I first heard her sing? Nearer it comes, filling my ears now with its familiar melody, a song without words but full of meaning for one who hears aright. She is guided true by the lamp of love and is now in the next room. I cannot wait, but interrupt her song with this cry:

"Come to me, my love, come quickly. I know your voice and the meaning of your song, and my heart responds to yours."

The strain continues, and soon a form appears in the doorway. I spring from my seat and start to meet it, but fall back almost immediately in confusion.

"Oh, Avis," I exclaimed with vexation, "I thought you were Mona again. I supposed you were on the other side of the world."

"I was, but I have come back to sing for you. I heard poor Mona had lost her voice and I wanted to do what I could to fill her place. But I fear you are not pleased with me."

"My dear friend," I replied, "I beg your pardon for the abrupt manner in which I received you. I thought Mona had suddenly recovered her voice and was coming in the fullness of her joy to tell me about it, and you can imagine my disappointment when I discovered my mistake. But now I assure you I am glad to have your sympathy and delighted to know that you are to be near me. Please go on with the song which I so rudely interrupted, and let me hear your voice as often as possible. It is exceedingly fortunate for me to have you here while Mona is recovering. Will you stay till she can sing again, or do you think it is too selfish in me to make such a request?"

Instead of answering me, Avis began to sing again, and in a twinkling I had forgotten my question and everything else in the enjoyment of the moment.

I now wanted little to make me supremely happy. There was Mona herself, with her exquisite beauty and friendly manner, and there was Mona's voice in the mouth of one who liked me enough to go half around the world to entertain me. And, if the truth must be told, my heart inclined more and more toward the voice. This was a startling truth indeed when it first fell upon me, and I fully determined that no one else should know it. Mona should never discover that I loved her less because she could not sing, and Avis should never know that her marvelous song was beginning to make the singer dear to me.

Whenever I found myself alone I could think of nothing but this perplexing subject. As I dwelt upon my situation, I told myself I must be careful, and avoid getting into trouble. Mona was becoming more and more tender toward me every day, and now Avis had come, unconsciously storming the seat of my affections with Mona's own voice. I felt that I was in some danger of embarrassing myself before the rest of my friends, and it behooved me to simplify matters if possible.

First, I must find out to a certainty just how I stood with Mona. Notwithstanding the admission which I had been forced to make to myself, I felt that it must be right for me to continue to devote myself to Mona, even if my heart did not bound toward her as in the days of my exuberant love. I should indeed be unworthy of her to give her up now. When I considered my former depth of feeling, I fairly despised myself for entertaining for a moment the possibility of her becoming less dear to me. But, for all that, I knew deep in my heart that the charm which had held me to her was gone, and I knew of no way to arrest and bring back my wandering affections.

Still, it could not be right for me to let her know I was changing. What would she think of me, and what opinion would Thorwald and Zenith have? I must own that the latter consideration had a good deal of force with me, for I did not want to lower myself and our whole race in their eyes.

So I prepared the form of speech with which to address Mona again on the old subject. It seemed strange that she should begin to grow fond of me just as soon as my love began to cool, and I determined with all my will never to let her know the state of my heart.

Not long after I had made this resolution, I was surprised to have the doctor tell me he was sorry to see I was not so partial to Mona's society since she had lost her voice. I do not remember what I said to him in reply, but I know his remark set me thinking hard. Perhaps other observers had noticed the same thing and were too considerate of my feelings to speak of it. Surely, I must have matters put upon a better footing at once.

As for Mona, she was never happier in her life, if we could judge from her actions. She had now learned to talk so well in her mute language that we all found conversation with her comparatively easy. Her fascinating manners made her interesting always, and in spite of her great loss she was still an important part of the life of the house. I argued to myself that my heart must be hard indeed if I could not continue to love her. To me her behavior was characterized by such a peculiar sweetness that I knew she was ready, on a word from me, to recall some of the harsh things she had said and to own a love quite different in kind from her regard for others.

The opportunity soon came to speak to her, and I embraced it. "Mona," I said, "I want to make a little speech to you. First, let me ask you if I can introduce a subject on which you have more than once stopped my mouth. Perhaps you know what I mean."

"Oh, yes," she replied, "I remember it very well, and you may talk all you please about it now. You must forgive me if I was unkind before and used my voice to vex you. But I am surprised to have you bring up this topic."

"Why?"

"Because I thought from your manner that you did not love me as you used to."

By this time the speech that I had prepared was all out of my head, and I was wondering if it were possible that I had lost so much of my affection for Mona that she had discovered it by a change in my manner. In reply to her remark I said:

"But such a thought has not made you unhappy, Mona, if I may judge from your behavior. I have never seen you more cheerful and full of life."

"No," she responded, "I think it has had the contrary effect. I was rather relieved to find you were recovering from your foolishness, and I thought we would now be able to live in peace, treating each other in a kind and sensible manner. I am disappointed to find that you are still clinging to the old idea, but I will not object to your saying all you please on the subject, for I have my own reasons now for being gracious to you."

"That's the very thing I want to ask you about, Mona. I have noticed your great kindness of late, and have supposed it came from the fact that you were learning to love me in my way; that is, somewhat to the exclusion of others. Isn't it that?"

"I think you will not be pained when I say you have had a wrong impression."

"Why do you think such a discovery will not pain me?"

"Because I am sure you do not care for me now in the same way as before. It was my voice that inthralled you. In all this interview you have not once said you love me, and you know at one time you could say nothing else. But let me tell you why I have shown an extra tenderness toward you recently. It was because I feared you would think I blamed you for my misfortune. I wanted to let you know I had not the least unkind feeling and that, in spite of the loss of my voice, I was as happy and contented as ever."

"Well, after all, you do love me a little, do you not, Mona?"

"Why, of course I do, just as much as ever. And now let us go right along and be nice to each other. We will love each other and love everybody else just the same, and you must promise not to look disturbed any more when I am talking with Foedric; but you have been very good about that of late."

"I will promise," I answered; "but what will you do if you find I am loving another person more than you?"

"Oh, I cannot understand what you mean by loving more and loving less. It is a strange idea to me, and I hope I shall never get accustomed to it. My way is to love everybody with all my heart, and that's an end of it. Don't you see in that way I escape all the worry and vexation which you seem to have in the matter? As to your loving another, you will pardon me if I say it will be a great relief to me for you to do so. I have not been used to being the sole recipient of any person's affection, and I shall rejoice to be freed from the responsibility. If you have thought me happy heretofore, you will now be astonished at my sprightliness. I suppose you refer to Antonia. She is a lovely girl, and—"

"Allow me," I interrupted; but before I could go on with my denial that voice again fell on my ears—so distant and low that I held my breath to listen. At first Mona did not hear it, but it soon increased in volume; and now, as the sweet sounds came pouring upon us, my companion saw how I was affected, and said in her sign language:

"Oh, I was mistaken. Antonia is not the one."

My heart was now all aflame, and, with Mona by my side and gazing into my glowing face, I almost forgot her presence in the approach of one whose song had such power. Was she old? Music like that is never old. Why should not my heart go out to her? She was still beautiful and not so old as I had supposed. And then, of course, people in that advanced condition, did not wear out in a few years as they did on the earth. As for her size, she was rather small for a Martian, and I, living under new conditions, would certainly take a start before many days, and no doubt become as large as Foedric, almost.

These ingenuous sentiments came to me with the sweet accents of that melodious song, and when Avis appeared I had great difficulty to keep from making some foolish exhibition of my feelings.

At my next sober moment, that is, when I was by myself, and out of hearing of that intoxicating music, it was very easy for me to realize my ridiculous situation, but not so easy to tell how I was to escape from it. As to my relations with Mona herself, I was greatly relieved by our last conversation. I certainly need no longer feel obliged to tie my vagrant heart to her. She would not miss it if it never once showed itself again, but how could I hope to preserve any sort of character in the eyes of my other friends? What sport the doctor would make of me if he knew how I felt toward Avis. He little thought that this was the daughter of Mars most likely to bring me to my knees.

And the doctor would have good reason for whatever enjoyment he might have at my expense, for I felt at first that I did not deserve any sympathy. When away from the powerful influence of that voice I was myself, and could see everything in its true perspective, but it is difficult to describe the change that came over me as soon as those entrancing notes fell upon my ear. The music sent great waves of emotion through my being, the storm center generally appearing to be the seat of my affections. My heart would beat fast, going out toward the singer in sympathy and love. The doubts of propriety belonging to my sane moments—hesitation, argument, uncertainty—all went in a flash, and I was almost ready to throw myself before her and proclaim my love without shame or embarrassment. At such times I felt that I could hold my head up in view of all the inhabitants of Mars and prove to them that I was not fickle, but as steadfast as constancy itself in following always one and the same attraction. Was I not as true to the best that was in me, when my heart was ravished by the voice of Avis, as I was when I had loved Mona so tenderly for the same sweet charm?

As day followed day in this delightful home, it was the society of Avis which I continually sought, and I was never quite happy except in her presence, or, at least, within hearing distance of her voice. And it was not long before the constant association of Avis with the music I loved so well began, even when I was not listening to her, to draw my affections toward one who, at will, could exert such power over me.

Mona was still herself, the same friendly, joyous creature as ever, but the knowledge that I could never gain her undivided affection helped to cure my infatuation. And now, with my heart free, why should I not love Avis? The mere fact that she was an inhabitant of Mars proved that she was far too good for me, but I could see by the example of Foedric and Antonia that Avis would never, in consequence of her high development, have any scruples against loving one person more than others.

When I had fully persuaded myself that I was perfectly consistent in my present course, I became quite anxious to know what others would think of me. But I was too much afraid of the doctor's criticism to confide my secret to him. I must try one of the Martians, whose high breeding and true courtesy would not permit them to make light of one's feelings on so serious a subject.

So it was to Zenith that I went for sympathy. She had been more than kind to me, and it is remarkable how easy and perfectly at home she made me feel in her company.

"Zenith," I began, "I want to consult you on a delicate subject, and I will first ask you a rather abrupt question. Will you give us your permission to take Avis back to the earth with us?"

A Martian never loses self-possession and is never at a loss what to say to the most unexpected proposition.

"Well, that is abrupt," Zenith quickly responded. "Do you know, Thorwald and I were talking only this morning about your apparent fondness for the society of Avis. Are you forgetting Mona?"

This was getting into the subject faster than I had intended, and I determined to take my time, so I said:

"Zenith, this province must be the New England of Mars, by the way you evade my question and ask another."

"But you wouldn't expect me to answer such a question offhand. You see, it contains several new ideas. First, I didn't know you thought of returning to the earth. Then I am surprised that you should want to take anybody with you. And, finally, I am more surprised that you should choose Avis rather than Mona. Now that I have explained so fully, may I not ask you again if this means that you are forgetting Mona?"

"Mona is not able to sing for me," I said.

"And do your ideas of what is right allow you to become indifferent to her as soon as she loses one of her attractions? Here her misfortune would tend to make her only more dear to one who really loved her."

To which I made haste to answer:

"I am proud to tell you, Zenith, that such sentiments prevail on the earth, too, and I have been trying hard to hold them in my own breast. But in living with you I am learning to be honest, and it would not be right for me to deny that Mona's chief charm for me is gone from her, and is in the possession of another. The voice of Avis has the same power over me that Mona's formerly had, and shall I fight against my growing fondness for Avis?"

"Is your race so little developed, then," asked Zenith, "that your ears are the only avenue to your hearts?"

Before I could answer, Mona herself came bounding into the room, and Zenith continued:

"There's the poor child now. How can you be so unkind to her?"

"Who's unkind to me?" asked Mona in her sign language.

"Zenith thinks I am," I answered.

"Why, you are mistaken, Zenith; he is just the opposite. We have always loved each other, and I think more of him than ever since I lost my voice, and he has ceased making serious speeches to me that I can't understand. I wish you could see how he enjoys hearing Avis sing."

In this way Mona proved to Zenith that she was not heart-broken. I was going to explain the matter myself, but was glad to have Mona take it out of my hands.

The most difficult task yet remained. I must tell Avis how affairs stood; and yet, was it the proper thing for me to do? I wondered how the delicate subject of making love was handled in Mars, where the two sexes were perfectly equal. Which one was to make the advances? The matter is simple enough on the earth, where women are inferior and dependent. Of course, they must smother their own feelings and wait to be discovered, while the men can make their selection, and if they do not succeed at first can simply try again. That is entirely proper, and everybody knows just what to do; but here things are probably different. I don't want to make a failure in this case, as I did with Mona, not knowing the customs of the moon-dwellers. Perhaps my best way will be to try a little coquetry and pretend I do not care for her nor her singing. That may draw her on to make some avowal to me.

I had gone so far in my deliberations, when I was interrupted by the doctor, who called to ask if I did not want to go out with him. I consented reluctantly, as I preferred to go on with my thinking till I could come to some decision. But the doctor had a purpose in taking me out, and, as soon as a good opportunity presented itself, he said, inquiringly:

"You find Avis a pretty good singer?"

"Excellent."

"And good company?"

"Excellent company. Why?"

"Oh, nothing; only I thought you were neglecting another friend."

"Why, Mona doesn't care for me, and Avis does, or, at least, I think she does."

"Do you mean by this," inquired the doctor, "that you have transferred to Avis the personal interest you had in Mona?"

"Have you anything to say in disparagement of Avis?" I asked.

"Certainly not. I have a high respect for her. But there is one other plain question I would like to ask you, in view of your rather erratic behavior."

"Well, what is it? I'm dying to know."

"It is this. What are you going to do with Margaret?"

"Margaret? Oh, yes, I forgot about Margaret. That is something else I have got to think over."

That night, as I was falling asleep, the same sweet, familiar music came to me from a distant part of the house. Half-thinking and half-dreaming, I let my mind drift where it would. The sensation received through my ears was so delicious and so satisfying that I wondered why I could not rest in it entirely and not think of the singer; but that was impossible. The notes penetrated from my brain down to the region of my heart. I thought of Margaret, but Margaret could not sing like that. Mona could not, now; no one but Avis. Oh, how I loved her for it! I remembered how nice Margaret was, and how much I had once thought of her; but as for loving her now, with this music of Mars in my ears, why, I simply couldn't try to do it. At last Margaret, Mona, Avis, all became jumbled up in my chaotic mind, and I thought they were one superb woman, and I loved her. The conceit was worthy the colossal selfishness of a dreamer. The essence of three worlds was mine. The earth, the moon, and Mars had all given me their best. And she could sing. The thought was soothing. I was asleep.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

UNTIL THE DAY BREAK.

The events related in the foregoing chapter were interesting to us all, in one way and another, but the doctor and I felt that the real purpose of our visit to Mars, if anything so unpremeditated could be said to have a purpose, was to learn all we could of the planet, and especially of its people. And as we did not know how soon our visit might be brought to a close, we lost no time in urging Thorwald to continue his instruction whenever he could find it convenient. Thorwald's answer to this was, that he hoped nothing would occur to hasten our departure, but that it was his convenience to heed at any time our wishes, and he would resume his talk as soon as we pleased. So it was not long before we were seated, and Thorwald began again as follows:

"It is now my privilege to speak to you, my friends, of that part of our history which differs from anything you have experienced, and I anticipate much pleasure in doing so. I must say again that we have found the parallel remarkably close between your career and ours up to the time when you left the earth."

"We have indeed," remarked the doctor, "and that makes us all the more anxious to learn what came to you next and how you escaped the threatening storms."

"There were certainly many clouds upon our horizon at that day," resumed Thorwald. "The people were full of unrest. The worst part wanted to replace organized society with anarchy, but this extreme party never succeeded in their purpose. The world had progressed too far for that. There were too many churches and schools and printing presses. The anarchists should have begun their efforts in a ruder age.

"There was more danger from the jealousies and mischievous tendencies among the great industrial class, because their number was so large. But even here the same influences which saved us from the nihilist had their effect. As time went on, men came to think more, and the result of this was that both conscience and reason began to govern men's actions.

"The workmen had looked about them and had seen many corporations increasing in wealth and power, and individuals rolling up enormous fortunes, and they had felt that they were not getting a fair share of the money their labor was earning. But then a little thought enabled them to realize that these evidences of great prosperity came from the successful few, while a large proportion of all business ventures were failures; and in these the employees received more of the profits than the owners did. Then the wage-earners had the benefit of much of the money accumulated in large fortunes, by having the free use of libraries, trade schools, reading rooms, and an increasing number of philanthropic institutions, which were equipped and endowed by the rich. Such a use of wealth became an ordinary thing, so that it was not a matter of wonder and wide notice when a man spent a liberal share of his fortune in educational or other humanitarian work.

"All this had a great effect on the mass of the people, gradually raising the average of character, and placing before the mind a higher incentive for right living. Ignorance had always been to the race a twin enemy with sin, and the growth of intelligence meant the general elevation of mankind.

"Another chief item in the reformation of men in that age of improvement was the general abandonment of the drinking habit. You will understand, of course, that the mainspring of all these reforms was the gospel of Christ, under which man's spiritual nature was gradually developing. But, at the same time, there was always a secondary cause, and through human instrumentality such blessings came to us. What do you suppose brought about the overthrow of intemperance?"

"I suspect," answered the doctor, with a glance at our hostess, "it was the growing influence of woman, who, by that time, according to Zenith's account, ought to be taking quite a leading position."

"Doctor," said Thorwald, "you take in the situation completely. If there was one thing woman had always been sure she could do, it was the breaking up of the liquor traffic. In the old days, when she had been treated as man's inferior, she had declared that, if she had the power, she would stamp out the manufacture and sale of intoxicating drinks, and make it impossible for men to get them at any price. And when power came to her I am glad to say she proved that her boast had not been in vain. Not that she fulfilled her threat in any such dramatic way as she had had in mind, but the end was accomplished just as surely by the force of her high character, working itself out in many ways. It was chiefly a crusade of education. The children of one generation after another were taught the value of right habits and purity of body, and in time the change was wrought, a victory for woman more precious to the race than any army of mailed warriors had ever won.

"With temperance came better manners, more self-respect, a kinder spirit, a more tender care for others, and, along with these things, better hearts and better homes."

As Thorwald had invited us to interrupt him as often as we pleased, I took advantage of a pause here by saying:

"I see, Thorwald, you are making the people all too good to leave any fear in the mind of a social convulsion, but I would like to ask how politics were smoothed out. During that period of industrial war, which you described to us, you said the workingmen and ignorant classes found they were in the majority and were beginning to use their power unjustly. We are threatened in a similar way on the earth at this time, and I am anxious to know how the cloud in your sky was dispersed."

"I will endeavor to make it plain to you," replied Thorwald, "but you must remember I am trying to condense the history of a great many years into as few words as possible. It was found that there had been a mistake in making the right of suffrage universal without universal education, and that the ignorant and vicious were so numerous as to make the average unsafe to rely upon in a crisis. It was a difficult matter to remedy this state of things. Some attempts were made from time to time to confine the privilege of citizenship to the intelligent part of the community, but many of the best people thought this was taking the wrong course, and that the only safe cure was in educating all classes up to a full appreciation of their higher duties. There was a growing faith, the world over, in the virtue of the people at large, and wherever they had been given full power to govern themselves, or had taken it from their former rulers, they were exceedingly jealous of any abridgment of this power.

"Here, again, we see the effects of the beneficent influence of woman. The more her dominion increased the more was intelligence diffused, and although she yielded to the subtle temptation of power and reigned alone for a while, yet the world had, on the whole, great cause to be thankful for her signal advancement. With education made compulsory, and with society brought gradually under the sway of woman's finer nature and more lofty ideals, communities were molded to a higher form of life, and saved from the evils which threatened them in their former state.

"Let me tell you briefly how war was banished from our world, that monster whose hideous presence would be so utterly out of place here now. At the beginning of the age I am describing, the foremost nations kept powerful armies and navies, all ready for their deadly work. Wars were frequent and bloody. The best of the young men in nearly every land were forced to bear arms and fight for their country at the command of their rulers, while the conscience of mankind was dulled and stunted by the spectacle or constant menace of war.

"The lives of millions of men were actually in the hands of a few irresponsible autocrats, who were possessed with exaggerated or false notions of national honor. Now came a time when the world stood hushed, as it were, on the eve of a mighty conflict. Every nation had increased its army and strengthened its defenses to the utmost limit. Every day threatened to see the match lighted—a hasty word, a fancied insult, any trivial thing, which would bring on the struggle and put the world in mourning. And what was it all for? No one could tell. It seemed to be nothing but the selfish ambition of the rulers and their innate love for supremacy. As for the real actors, those who were to do the actual fighting, they had no love for their work. However it may have been in the past, the world was older now and better, and war was abhorred with all its accompaniments both by the army and by the people at large.

"It was a time of great inventions, looking not only to the saving of life but to its destruction. Even while the nations were standing, arms in hand, waiting for the signal to begin the conflict, their weapons were rendered useless and the strength of their fortresses reduced to nothing by the working of one man's brain. Yes, by a single invention, inspired by God for the good of his creation, inhuman war received its death-blow and the world obtained a mighty impulse toward its final goal."

The doctor became somewhat excited by these words and asked with eagerness:

"What wonderful invention was that?"

"The perfection of the air ship," Thorwald replied, "by which any required weight could be taken into the air, and carried with ease and certainty by currents of air or force of gravity.

"You no doubt see what such an invention implies. It means that powerful explosives could be dropped from the sky in quantities sufficient to annihilate an army or utterly destroy a city. Experiments were made, and engineers learned, with surprising rapidity, to cast the bombs with great accuracy from any desired height.

"At once every government hastened to build air ships and manufacture explosives. There seemed to be no limit in sight to the production of either, and soon power enough was stored in this way to extinguish half the life of the world, when rightly applied. The entire system of warfare was revolutionized; but, while all were preparing for offensive operations, there appeared to be no adequate plan of defense under the new system. It therefore became apparent that, should the threatening cloud burst, it would be difficult to imagine the extent of the destruction it would bring. This feeling, which filled all hearts with dread, delayed the catastrophe, for no one was ready to assume such an immense responsibility. So matters stood for a long time, the fear of the dire consequences preventing an outbreak, while the sentiment against war was rapidly growing. In nations of the highest civilization, where the Christian character of the people was reflected in the government, some serious disputes had been settled by arbitration, and every time this humane method was adopted a precedent was created which made war appear more and more useless and barbarous. The world was now becoming so much changed that such a good example was contagious, and the result was that the aerial warships and the deadly dynamite did not have to be used.

"Among the legends of the time is the improbable one that, when these air fleets were at their highest point of efficiency, and the world was literally lying at their mercy, one hot-headed young monarch, whose selfish pride had stolen away his senses, gave the command to fire the train which would ram destruction upon his foes, when, wonder of wonders, not a man would obey his order. Angered beyond measure by such an unwonted experience, he seized with his own hand the electric apparatus arranged to give the fatal spark, but with such violence and indiscretion that, instead of sending the current on its appointed mission, it turned from its course and destroyed the angry youth himself.

"This is undoubtedly a myth, but the rest that I have told you is well- authenticated history.

"The abolition of war seems sudden, but it never would have taken place as it did had not the people been prepared for it by a radical change in their character. For many years the spirit of peace had been quietly at work on the heart of mankind, until it came to be realized that warfare and strife, whether between individuals or nations, were bound to die away under the growing appreciation for the higher law.

"It was one of the supreme days in the history of Mars, when grim war passed and became but a memory. The effect was instantaneous. At once the people of the different nations were drawn together to their mutual advantage. Commerce became world-wide, one language was adopted, and the arts of peace flourished as never before. Men began to feel that they were one family, national distinctions were made little of, and the world drifted gradually toward universal brotherhood.

"I must now draw your attention to the work of the church and show you how it was carrying out its great commission. First, to prepare for the highest usefulness, it quite early freed itself from the sectarian spirit. As the magnitude of its mission became more apparent the points of difference between the denominations grew constantly smaller, and, in time, all Christians found themselves united on the fundamental truths of the gospel, and working together to bring the world to the light. With this union fully accomplished, Christianity became more than ever the dominant force in the world, and the church the chief center of all work looking to the elevation of the race.

"The progress of the world was along the line of the brotherhood of man, and that doctrine was the church's own Christianity taught the true socialism, which, however, could not be realized till the heart had lost its selfishness, and each one had learned to care for the interests of his neighbor. Although such a condition was not in sight at that day, there was a mighty awakening which set the current of men's thoughts and desires strongly in the right direction."

"Do you call yourselves socialists now?" asked the doctor.

"No," answered Thorwald, "but you can call us so, if you please. It is a good word, but our condition is much more perfect, since the coming of the kingdom of God in every heart, than any dream of socialism, in the olden time, ever contemplated.

"I was speaking of the increasing power of religion. Where the church had been weak and dependent on a few half-earnest, timid believers, it was now strong and active, and supported by all the self-respecting portion of society. Instead of being forced to beg for its meager subsistence, it now received in abundance the money that was poured out voluntarily. Men did not wait for death, but gave their fortunes away during their lives, and enjoyed the blessing which followed. The church went down to the people, and in so doing lifted them up to itself. It showed them how to make much of life, gave them instruction and recreation and social enjoyment, fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and visited those in trouble. It strengthened family and neighborhood ties, encouraged peace and good- fellowship, and taught men to love each other as a preparation for loving God.

"A local church of that day was not a feeble body of men and women, with an overworked and underpaid man at their head, who was expected to do all the varied work required, except what he could get done by a small number of his members, themselves worn out with the labor and business of life. No, I will acquaint you with a then modern church. It was an institution rich in resources and men, male and female, reaching out into the community in every direction, helping the people in every imaginable way to live as well as preparing them to die, a beauty and a joy to all. It appealed to every side of man's nature, first supplying physical wants, not by indiscriminate largess of money, but by teaching sobriety, industry, and thrift as virtues necessary to a rounded character. Such teaching was not confined to pulpit precepts, but there was no lack of good souls who took delight in going into the homes of the people and showing them by example the best ways of living, and how to make even the homeliest duties a loving and beautiful service. To provide further for the needs of the body, there were gymnasiums, bath-houses, swimming schools, playgrounds, riding schools, and the like.

"More numerous still were the means offered to meet the intellectual and social desires—club-houses, lecture halls, conservatories, museums, picture galleries, libraries, reading rooms, observatories, kindergartens, manual training and trade schools, besides games and sports, spectacular and dramatic exhibitions of a high order, and many other things, designed to compete with attractions of a debasing character.

"Then, rising high over all, both in outward form and inward grace, was the church edifice itself, set apart and strictly preserved for its sacred purpose. In the noble lines of its architecture, in the beauty of its artistic adornment, and in the character of its service, intellectual and musical, it represented the highest culture of the age. The structure included under its roof accommodations for the various departments of religious work, and its doors were always open, inviting every passer-by to enter and seek for spiritual refreshment.

"Imagine, if you can, an institution employing all these agencies, every one of them fully equipped and manned, and with streams of money flowing in to their support; no barren appeals from the pulpit for funds to pay expenses, and no auctioneer's hammer profaning the sacred aisles.

"This was the church of the period. Can you wonder that God's rich blessing was on such work and that his kingdom made rapid progress? There was an ever-increasing number of God's ministers, men and women, imbued with Christ's own spirit, working in all these various activities to elevate and save their kind.

"In the life of the people there was nothing in all the world that so surrounded them as the church. They could not escape from its influence. It touched them from one side or from another, calling upon them, by every manner of appeal, to lead less sordid lives, and seek the highest good. Whereas in the olden time they seemed to be set in the midst of evil influences, which imperceptibly molded their characters and too often wrecked their lives, their condition was so changed that their environment was now a help and not a hindrance, and so the gospel found easy entrance to their hearts and lives.

"This much the church had done by giving its money and itself, with new-born zeal, to the work of the Master. And from this time you may be sure its victories were rapid and notable.

"While this great change in society had been going on among nominal Christian people, hand in hand had gone the work of the gospel in heathen lands. The faster the money was poured out for the church at home, the more plentifully it was offered for the foreign field. Sometimes it was feared there would be more money than men and women for the work. Then the laborers would come forward in such numbers that the money would be exhausted, which, however, gave no concern, for it was sure to come again as soon as needed. Where one missionary, in the former days, had had the courage to take up the work, now thousands sprang forward and with eager hearts went into the field.

"Going to the heathen in the same spirit of brotherly love and helpfulness which had been so successful at home, the church was almost overwhelmed with the happy results. One people after another threw away their idols, and became followers of the gentle Savior, whose disciples showed so much of his spirit. In every part of the world the gospel was gaining fast over superstition and ignorance. In Christian lands no other news was so sought after by all as the reports of the progress of the cross, at home and abroad. Enthusiasm is a small word with which to describe the burst of genuine interest in this great cause. Nor was it a transient show of feeling, but so steady and constant that there was never any doubt of its enduring till the final victory was won.

"Where now were the dangers that threatened society? What had become of the labor troubles, the schemes of the anarchists, the menace of the unemployed, the risk of a plutocracy, and all the evils that darkened the sky of that former day? How far away, how trivial these things seemed, now that they had passed, and men were learning to dwell together in peace."



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

AND THE SHADOWS FLEE AWAY.

Thorwald paused again, and the doctor felt moved to say:

"Your sketch has been richly enjoyed, Thorwald, and if it can be taken as prophetic, in any sense, of what is to come to pass on the earth, we are to see some happy days indeed. But a question has arisen in my mind which I would like to ask you. When you broke off your former narrative, things were in a pretty serious state among your ancestors. You have now told us in a general way that there was a great change for the better, and that every thing and every body improved until the time came when it was easier to be good than not. I accept the fact, but do not understand the practical operation of the causes that led to such a result. For instance, I would like to know how that industrial strife came to an end. The parties to it seemed to be full of bitter enmity and far enough from ever loving one another. You have perhaps answered my question already, and my stupidity has prevented me from grasping your meaning."

"Let me first ask you a question," said Thorwald. "I have inferred, from some words you have let fall from time to time, that your mind has changed somewhat. Will you admit that whatever advance this world has made has come through the teachings of Christ?"

"It would be rather presumptuous in me," answered the doctor, "to think of denying anything to which you hold so firmly. More than that, in the light of what I have seen and heard here, my own views, so rashly expressed in the first days of our acquaintance, seem to me out of place. They were formed without sufficient study of the subject, and I am free to tell you that I now believe the same influence to which you attribute your growth is the strength and growth of our race also."

"Your words give me great pleasure," Thorwald resumed, "for now I know I have your full sympathy. The troubles to which you refer, and all the clouds of that period, were dispersed by the growth of the spirit of love in the world. Does that seem a vague and insufficient answer to your question? Does the cause appear inadequate to the effect? Perhaps I should have warned you not to expect any new or startling method of removing these evils. The world was not in need of any nostrum for curing sin, nor of any new scheme of the visionary for teaching men how to find peace and happiness.

"No, the old gospel was sufficient. The power was already at work which was to regenerate the world and, in time, to do away with all kinds of oppression and injustice. The gospel did not spend its force so much in attacking special forms of evil. It struck at the foundation of our sinful nature, and, by long and patient effort, won a firm place in our hearts. Then the whole structure of evil passions and low desires fell, and our race began to build, on this new and safe foundation, more beautiful and enduring mansions.

"If we were to be the children of God, it was necessary for us to be like him, to deny ourselves, and to love our enemies. So, with that spirit growing in our hearts, what place was there for greed and anger and strife between man and man?

"One secret of the new power put forth by the church is to be found in the union of all good men and women in its support. Before that period many people of character had stood aloof, giving little thought to religion for themselves, and less still to its influence on the world at large. Some of them were out-and-out unbelievers, but, for the most part, they were careless livers, too much engrossed in the affairs of this world to feel any anxiety about the world to come.

"But now, in the march of events, the time came when the lines must be sharply drawn between the good and evil forces. Iniquity presented such a bold front, and all the foes of order and decency became so threatening, that the moral forces of society had to combine for mutual protection. The church, being the conservator of morals as of religion, was the only rallying point for these forces, and felt at once the impulse of new life. Thus, society, in the hour of its extremity, found the true source of its salvation, and from that day its progress toward a higher state began, a progress which has never yet been stayed.

"Let me urge you, Doctor, to learn a lesson from our history. You acknowledge that, if the earth is to be saved from the evils which threaten its peace, it must be through the gospel. If, therefore, you and others like you wish to help speed the earth in its upward path, you must obey and work for that gospel. To do good to your fellowmen and assist in the regeneration of the world is only one motive for doing this, but it will, I am sure, lead you to that other motive, a desire to please your God. Every consideration calls you to leave your doubts and negations, your neglect and indifference, and join with all the strength of your character in a united effort to free the earth from some of its sin. When this is done, when all the good forces cease their strife and their cold neutrality and come together under the banner of love, you will see a mighty change. Then will the earth grow bright with hope and begin to realize something of the nature of its high destiny.

"Let me continue to describe the effect of such warm-hearted, combined labor among us, and the result on our planet of the great spiritual awakening to which I have referred.

"As men took note of the vast improvement going on around them, for every department of life felt the quickening of the new zeal, they became more and more eager in the overthrow of evil. And they had learned thoroughly the great truth that the way to regenerate the world was for everyone to build up his own character in truth and righteousness. Noble lives, devoted to lofty aims, were the natural result of the change, and our race, emerging from such a state of imperfection as I have tried to outline, began to realize with joy that they were living in a new world.

"I wish I could describe to you in fitting words the wonderful nature of this advancement. All the pride and selfishness, so common to all hearts in our degenerate days, were now driven out and replaced by the spirit of self-denial. Love, the living principle in the gospel, had conquered all its foes and was now enthroned in every heart.

"Do not suppose all this came about in one generation. It is only by comparing one period with another that we are able to see such marked progress. Our development toward the higher life has always been step by step, and sometimes so slow that the people actually living, and in whom the change was taking place, were not aware of any growth.

"But there have been special periods in our history when, after long years of preparation, the race has come to a sudden appreciation of a higher and better condition. The most glorious epoch of this kind came at the close of the period I have just been describing.

"Perhaps you have seen some rare plant, having come to its maturity through a process so slow as to bring discouragement, often, to those who are cultivating it, now suddenly burst into bloom with such magnificence that the disappointments of the past are all forgotten in the enjoyment of its beauty.

"So broke that blessed day upon Mars. None so fair had ever dawned before, and none less fair have we ever seen since.

"While this spiritual awakening was taking place, there had been rapid progress, also, in our material development. The evils that formerly vexed our bodies having disappeared, we were now free from sin and sorrow alike, and so were prepared to enter upon duties relating to our higher condition.

"All nature rejoiced with us, for the world itself was filled with the joy and beauty which came from the knowledge of the Lord. Peace reigned in the animal creation, and such gladness abounded everywhere that it is hardly an exaggeration to say that the mountains and hills broke forth into singing, and all the trees of the field clapped their hands."

As Thorwald uttered these closing words, so beautiful and familiar, I was so impressed with their appropriateness to his narrative that I did not stop to wonder where he had obtained them, but inquired with eagerness:

"And is it true, Thorwald, that instead of the thorn there came up the fir-tree, and instead of the brier there came up the myrtle-tree?"

"That describes the situation admirably," he answered, "and it is literally true."

"Why should that be so?" I asked.

"Because, when sin was banished from our world, it dragged in its train every evil thing and left all bright and joyous behind it. Even the unconscious soil was so improved in character that, whereas in the former time it had brought forth by nature the thorn and brier and noxious weed, there now sprang up spontaneously all manner of healthful plants and fruits."

"But," said I, "we do not attribute moral excellence to the ground that produces our food. How could the absence of sin make it any better?"

"Like everything else," replied Thorwald, "it reflected the spiritual condition of our race. By long and patient cultivation, by a constant use of good seed, and by a persistent fight against every tendency to evil growth, men had so changed the nature of the soil that it yielded only that which was good. Even if left without care the ground did not deteriorate, but the products took on the character of the times and gradually improved. To such a degree had our once sinful world been changed.

"The disagreeable features in nature's laboratory were lost to every sense, while everything that was beautiful in sight or sound, or that was pleasant to the taste, now possessed an added charm. The birds sang in more joyous notes, the flowers glowed in brighter hue, and all created things burst forth in a song of praise to their Maker."

"Is it possible," I asked, "that the growth of love in the heart will so transform a world and make even inanimate things more beautiful? The earth is full of selfishness and I fear will be so for a long time, and yet we think we have a few things that are perfect. I cannot conceive, for instance, how anything could ever grow, sin or no sin, that would surpass in beauty one of our finest roses."

To which Thorwald replied:

"Is this not of value to you, to learn that the roses of the future are entirely beyond your conception? Let me assure you that, with each new advance in your progress toward a higher condition, there will unfold within you new powers of appreciation for the increasing beauties in nature, and new desires for spiritual perfections which are now too high for your mind to grasp. Is it not a pleasure to know that there are many things in reserve for the earth of whose character and perfections you cannot conceive?"

"It surely is," I replied, "and we shall never cease to thank you for this hour's talk. But now let me ask if you were not really in heaven when you reached such a happy state. With both man and nature redeemed from sin, with the tears wiped away from all eyes, with all griefs assuaged and sickness and sorrow forgotten, and with love supreme in the heart, what more was needed to make a heaven? Many of our generation on the earth believe that the earth itself will be our heaven, when sin has been driven out and peace and joy abound."

"Oh, no, not heaven," answered Thorwald. "The earth will be better in a thousand years than it is now, much better in ten thousand years, but it will never be heaven."

"But why?" I persisted. "We cannot understand how there could be any more blessed place than the earth would be if it should ever reach the condition which you have pictured to us as existing here."

"You have just stated the trouble," Thorwald replied.

"You cannot understand. With your present capacities you think a state such as I have described would be perfection; but you—I mean, of course, your race—will come in time to see imperfections even in such a life, and will, with increasing spiritual vision, see still higher things to strive for. Let me urge you to keep your hearts attuned to the heavenly music and your minds open to divine influences."

Here Thorwald was about to leave us, as we remained in quiet thought after his solemn and impressive words. But I kept him a moment to ask if they had solved all the mysteries of God's moral government. "By no means," he replied. "There are still many things unexplained in God's dealings with us, and we think this is well. Life would lose much of its value if the time should come when there would be nothing to learn. We know much of God's character, but are not acquainted with its full depths, and whenever we see or experience anything mysterious in his providences we are content to wait for a fuller revelation of truth in the future.

"We shall see the time when all our questions will be answered—that is, in the world to come—and, in the mean time, we try to strengthen our high and beautiful conception of God's character by referring everything we do not understand to his loving and gracious qualities, which we know so well."



CHAPTER XXXIX.

A SUDDEN RETURN TO THE EARTH.

That night, when the doctor and I were alone, I said to him:

"Well, doctor, what do you think of it all?"

"It would take me a long time," he replied, "to tell what I think. I confess I am beginning to imbibe a little of the spirit of this place. I have spent my life in the pursuit of material facts, which we supposed were the only substantial and valuable things in life Now I find myself thinking lightly of such matters, with my mind held in the grasp of far different thoughts. I realize now something of the substance and reality of unseen things, and believe that man has a spiritual side to his nature, which must be developed if he is to fulfill the high expectations of our friends in this world. Taught by Thorwald's words and by all I have seen here, I have come to that point where I can say I am losing my doubts and acquiring a love for things which formerly did not exist for me. If we ever return to the earth we shall find occupation enough for the rest of our lives in teaching the lessons we have learned here."

"Yes," I said, "if we ever return. But doesn't that seem impossible?"

"It certainly is difficult to imagine how it can be accomplished, but going home ought not to be any more impossible than our coming here. Perhaps we had better bestir ourselves, for Mars is now getting farther away from the earth every day. Thorwald says the two planets were nearer each other at the recent opposition than ever before since their records began, and this is probably what drew our moon here, so fortunately for us. For the return trip we might get these generous people to loan us Demios or Phobos."

"What are they?"

"Why, don't you know? They are the little satellites of Mars, named after the favorite horses of the war god."

"But seriously now," I asked, "how are we to get home?"

"Well, seriously, I don't know," the doctor answered. "Some accident may happen to send us away from here in a hurry."

"You know this is not the right world for accidents," I said.

"I am not able to see," he replied, "how they can be sure that they are entirely free from accidents. They have been so long without them that it seems to me it would not be strange if a big one should come almost any day. One must be due, as we say."

In the morning Thorwald met us with a pleasant greeting, as usual, and then said:

"I have been surprised that you have not shown more curiosity on one subject of vast importance to us. You have not once asked to see our comet."

"We have talked of it by ourselves," said the doctor, "but we have been too much engrossed in studying your history and customs to think much of a topic so far above our comprehension as the comet. Your civilization is much higher than we can appreciate, and I am sure we should make small progress in attempting to investigate a development that is so much beyond yours."

"Your excuse," returned Thorwald, "is as complimentary as it is ingenious. But should you not like to see an object which possesses so much interest for us?"

"Certainly," the doctor made haste to reply; "and just as soon as you choose to take us. You told us it was at the door of a large city. Is it far from here?"

"Yes," Thorwald answered, "a long way in miles, but not far in minutes if we go by the tubular route. But if it is agreeable to you, suppose we take the air line and make a leisurely excursion of it."

We both assured him that we were delighted with the prospect, and I suggested that Zenith and the children should accompany us.

"Yes," said Thorwald, "and in anticipation of your consent to go on the expedition, I invited some other friends of yours last night to share the pleasure with us. And here they are now," he continued, rising and stepping to the door.

The doctor and I hurried forward, and were heartily greeted by Proctor, the astronomer, and Foedric of the red voice. The latter was accompanied by a comely-looking ape, which had been trained to act as his body servant. The animal was intelligent, and quick to understand every word addressed to him, but quiet and respectful in demeanor, and, to all appearance, as well fitted to fill the station he occupied as the servants we had been accustomed to seeing on the earth.

Zenith explained to us that in many households the ape and other creatures were employed for light services, and were exceedingly useful. But as for their own house, she said the work that could not be done by mechanical means she preferred to do herself, assisted by her children. It was much better that every child should have some stated work to do.

It was not long before we were all on our way to the aerial station, where we selected a commodious air ship, managed by one of Foedric's friends.

When we were seated comfortably and were enjoying once more the exquisite sensation of sailing so easily through that balmy air, Thorwald said to the doctor and me:

"We all anticipate a great deal of pleasure in showing you our big natural curiosity and what it contains. We want to see your surprise when you look upon its vast proportions, and your growing curiosity as you try to make out some of its mysteries. Things which baffle our skill may be plain to you, and perhaps you will even be able to do something with that puzzling language."

"Yes," said the doctor, "if it is beyond your skill we shall no doubt be able to read it at sight."

"Well, at any rate," continued Thorwald, "we shall enjoy the novel experience of exhibiting the marvel of our whole world to those who were, until so recently, entirely ignorant of its existence."

"I hope," I said, "that our behavior will not be such as to disappoint you, when we are brought face to face with the object for which you have so deep a sentiment.

"But, Thorwald, the doctor and I have been talking about going home. Not that we are tiring of your society, but we are filled with a desire to tell the people of the earth what we have found on Mars and try to teach them some of the good lessons you have given us. The doctor, who has a monopoly of the scientific culture in our party, can see no prospect of our getting away from your planet. With your more advanced science, can you suggest any way by which we can take a dignified leave of you?"

"We should regret exceedingly," replied Thorwald, "to lose you just as we are becoming well acquainted, but I have no criticism to make on the excuse you offer for wanting to revisit your home. I must say, however, that you present to us too hard a problem to solve. With all our attainments in astronomy and in the navigation of the air, you went one point beyond us when you took passage from the earth to Mars, for we have no means by which to express passengers from one planet to another.

"We consider the circumstances of your leaving the earth and your journey hither the most remarkable thing of the kind ever heard of, and we have nothing in our experience on which we can begin to build any scheme for sending you off on so long a flight through space. If you will only be content to stay here till we have progressed further with our investigations of the high civilization brought to light in our comet, perhaps we can help you. The remarkable people whose exalted condition is there represented may have had powers in this direction of which we cannot conceive. The subject will add even more zest to our researches.

"Why do you desire to leave us so soon? You have seen but few of our notable improvements, and learned comparatively little of the practical workings of our high civilization. And then I have been hoping the doctor would come fully into our belief before he went away."

"If you could hear what he has told me," I said, "you would see that he is already fit to be sent as a foreign missionary from this blessed world to the struggling earth."

"Good!" cried Thorwald. "I am delighted to hear it. If anything could reconcile us to the loss of your society, it is the knowledge that you will both he glad messengers of hope to your promising race. I rejoice that I have had a share in the work of preparing you for your mission.

"And now, suppose we all humor your conceit and give you our parting words, as if the ship were at hand which was to sail the mighty void, and bear you safely to your distant home.

"Come, wife, friends, the day is young and the air delightful. There is nothing to hasten us on our way. Let us ride leisurely along and take a little time to speed these earth-dwellers on their prospective journey with a few words of cheer.

"Foedric, what advice have you to offer them before they take their leave of us?"

Foedric was modest, as we had learned before, but he entered into Thorwald's plan with evident pleasure, and said, addressing the doctor and me:

"My friends from foreign skies, you do not need advice from me after you have been so long with Thorwald and Zenith, but I will send a message to your unfortunate fellow beings who have never had the pleasure of their acquaintance. When you have related your experiences and told them the condition in which you have found us, ask them to call us no longer Mars, but Pax, the world of peace. Our planet is red, but not with war. Its red is rather the blush of the dawn that ushers in the day of universal love. My word to men is to expect the advent of that day, and, expecting, to prepare for it. Useless, cruel, inhuman war must cease, with all strife and hatred and envy and bitter feeling; and then shall you begin to see the full measure of beauty in the song of the angels of which you have told us, and 'Peace on earth' will be a blessed fact and not a prophecy. Thorwald, I have finished."

"You have spoken well, Foedric," said Thorwald. "And now, what wise counsel will you give, Proctor?"

"From what I have learned in regard to the people of the earth," replied Proctor, "it seems to me they will be obliged to have a great deal of war there yet—war against a world of evils, which must be driven out with a strong hand before they can have peace. When each individual has subdued his own spirit, then there will be no more war, and no other enemies to conquer."

"Study the majesty and power of God as exhibited nightly in the starry sky, and learn to revere a being who holds in his hands a million worlds, and not only guides their movements but directs with a heart of love the minutest affairs of all their inhabitants. Look over the broad field of creation, and think of the earth, grand and beautiful as it is, as only one among the vast number of peopled orbs, all swinging in unison, parts of one plan, every one in its day sending forth a song of praise to its maker. So shall your hearts expand and burst the narrow bounds of selfish desire and trivial occupation, and you will begin to grow into the full stature of the sons of God."

Proctor spoke with such feeling that the doctor and I now began to think that these people must be in earnest and were really preparing to send us home in some way, but the latter idea was, as will speedily be seen, an unjust suspicion.

"Zenith," said Thorwald, "will you take your turn, after Proctor's inspiring words?"

"If we were in truth making our farewells to these friends," replied Zenith, "I should feel more sadness than I am conscious of now.

"My message, O men, shall be a plea for purity. If you would seek to make your world the better for your visit here, teach men everywhere to be pure, a hard lesson to learn, but one that will bring a rich reward. First make the fountain sweet. Be pure in heart, and then your lives, and even your thoughts, will be pure. When you can fully obey the command, 'Think no evil,' you will need no other commandment to keep your lives unspotted. Such a requirement no doubt seems too difficult for you now, but the earth must come to its maturity by following the same high ideal which has ever been set before us. There is one law for all worlds, an infinitely pure and holy God commands us all to be perfect even as he is perfect, although to that perfection nor earth nor Mars, nor, perhaps, any other world, has yet attained."

"But, Thorwald, I fear you will not have time to give your farewell words before our friends depart."

"I shall not require much time," replied Thorwald, "but I should not like to lose the opportunity of adding something to what has already been said. I think we have been wise in having this talk, for those who could take advantage of such a novel way of coming to us may discover some means of going home again before we suspect it."

Then, turning to us, Thorwald continued:

"Go back to the earth, my brothers, and tell men to despair not in their conflict with evil; for God reigns, therefore the good will triumph. Tell them you found a race of happy beings here, not perfect, but aiming toward perfection, having escaped many of the perils that belong to an earlier stage of existence. The earth, too, will one day be old. Will it be happy then? Your generation can help to make it so. With our history to guide us, and with the knowledge you have given us of the earth's present condition, we have high hopes of your race, and I venture the prediction that your world will see, in the near future, such an advance as you have never dreamed of. The era of a united effort to overthrow the evil forces is approaching, when all will press with eager, sincere hearts into the work, when money will be poured out like water, when men will begin to lose their selfishness and take each other by the hand as brothers, and when the dark places of the earth will grow bright with the light of the gospel.

"I do not wonder you want to get back there. I hope I should have the same desire if I were in your place. What a time in which to live, with so much good work to do, and such encouragement and sure reward!"

Thorwald's enthusiasm made him eloquent, and we all regarded him intently as he spoke. How well I remember that group of persons: Proctor, the devout astronomer; the stalwart and earnest Foedric; Zenith, the queen of all womanly graces; and Thorwald himself, our friend and brother, the rich fruit of an advanced development.

My companion and I were deeply impressed with the words we had heard, and could hardly realize that these friends were not aware that our life in Mars was nearly over, their farewells were so genuine.

But, hark! Thorwald is still speaking:

"Go back to the earth, I say, and—" a crash, a sensation of falling, a dull pain in my head, a new voice at my ear, saying,

"Why, Walter, are you hurt?"

During the effort to recover full consciousness I said:

"There, Doctor, the accident you expected has certainly come."

And then I opened my eyes and discovered that I was sitting in an undignified position on the deck of a vessel of some kind.

Again the voice, now more familiar and identified with a lovely face, said:

"You must have had that broken chair; I knew it would let you down some time. Don't you know me, Walter?"

"Why, yes, it's you, Margaret, isn't it? But where's the doctor?"

"Oh, how are you hurt?" cried Margaret in alarm. "Tell me, and I will run for the doctor at once."

This conversation had all passed in a moment, and by the time it was finished I had extricated myself from the broken chair with Margaret's assistance, and was now wide awake. I had never expected to leave Mars without the doctor; but now he was gone with all the rest, and I was well content to find myself back by Margaret's side, and to hear her pleasant words, the words of a plain inhabitant of the earth, not too good to love me a little selfishly. A wave of intense happiness in the possession of such a love passed over me. It was a feeling I had never before experienced in my waking moments and it must have illumined my face, for Margaret continued:

"I don't believe you are hurt at all. You look too happy to be in pain. What have you been dreaming about, that makes your face shine so? How thankful I am for this bright moonlight. I never saw you have so much expression before."

"Margaret," I replied, as soon as she would let me speak, "don't you remember you sent me on a quest for my heart? Well, I have found it and brought it back to you."

"How lovely to find it so soon," she exclaimed; "and I know by your looks it's a large one and full of love. But tell me about it. How did it happen?"

"Why, I fell in love with a voice."

"With a voice? Whose voice?"

"Well, it didn't seem to matter much. First it belonged to Mona and then to Avis, and part of the time to both of them."

"You make me jealous," said Margaret.

We were now standing, hand in hand, leaning on the rail of the vessel, in the full enjoyment of our new-found happiness.

"You will not be jealous," I answered, "when you know all about it. I have enough to tell you, Margaret, to occupy a week, I should think. I have seen and heard a great deal, and seemed to be living amid other scenes for many months, and yet I notice the moon is but two or three hours higher than when you left me there in the chair to go and find your book. I shall take great pleasure in relating to you the entire experience when we have time. Perhaps I will write it out for you. I have been stirred as I never expected to be, but I assure you I have brought back my whole heart to you. Only," I added, as a sudden flash of memory startled me with its vividness, "I should like to hear that voice once more."

"Ah," said my companion, "why do you think of that so much? I fear you are not quite heart whole. What was there peculiar about the voice?"

"Margaret, it was the most exquisite music anyone ever dreamed of. I cannot describe my emotions or the intensity of my enjoyment whenever I heard it. First the voice belonged to a beautiful girl whom I thought we met on the moon, and who talked only in the language of the birds. Then she went to Mars with us, and there I heard the same sweet voice also from one of the noble women of that happy planet.

"Oh, what queer things we do in our sleep, and how supremely selfish a dreamer is. I once had a theory that we are all responsible for the character of our dreams, but I hope, my dear, that you will not call me to too strict an account in this case, I should blush to tell you how I loved each singer, and yet I know now it was only the voice that charmed me. I shall seek my pillow with delight to-night, to try and catch in my sleep some faint echo of that song, for I never expect to hear its like in my waking hours. You are laughing at me, and I don't wonder. Let me see. I dreamed that I dreamed that you and Mona and Avis were all one grand, sweet singer. I wonder what would have happened if I had staid there long enough to tell Avis something that was on my mind. Perhaps I never should have come away.

"But forgive me, dear Margaret, for my enthusiasm for simply a memory, and put the blame on my sensitive ears. And now, tell me what you have been doing during these long hours. Did you find the professor and get your book?"

"Yes, but I had to stay a few minutes and hear him talk. I hurried back, however, to be with you, and for my reward found you fast asleep."

"I was only dozing. But what did you do then?"

"Oh, I sat quiet for a while, and then took up the amusement I usually follow when I find myself alone."

"What is that? Pray tell."

"Singing, of course."

"Singing?"

"Why, yes, didn't you know I could sing?"

"Do you mean to say you were singing all those two or three hours?"

"Not all the time, but at intervals. I sang so loud sometimes that I thought I should wake you." "Then," I exclaimed with feeling, "it was you that I heard. You know my ears are never fully asleep. Margaret, it was your voice that I have been falling in love with."

At this Margaret laughed heartily, as she answered:

"You have been a good while finding it out. I knew it all the time. That's what I sang for, and I had my pay as I went on, for every time I began, whether soft or loud, I could see your face light up with the light of your soul, and then I knew my voice was finding its way to some corner of your brain."

"How stupid of me," I said, "not to wake up the very first time I heard you; but I thought it was Mona. Oh, how it did thrill me! And to think I am to hear it again when I am really awake. Come, why do we waste all this time in talking when I have that great happiness still unfulfilled? May I not hear you sing now?"

"Oh, you might be disappointed, after all. My idea is that you enjoyed my singing because all your critical faculties were dulled in sleep, and you heard only through your heart, as it were. Don't you think it would be better to live awhile on the pleasant memory you have brought back with you?"

"Not at all. I can retain the memory, and have the present happiness besides."

"But you said you never expected to hear such music in your waking hours."

"Do not be so cruel, Margaret, as to recall those words against me, although they were really a tribute to you, for it was your own voice that forced me to utter them. But what can I do to induce you to sing?"

"Go to sleep," she replied. "I will sing for you all you please when you are asleep, and you can hear me and think of Mona at the same time. That will be a double pleasure."

"My dear, I prefer to think of you. Mona was a beautiful girl, but she could never love me as you do."

"Why so? Wasn't her heart large enough?"

"Yes, it was too large—so large that she loved everybody, and one no more than another; while you, darling, have chosen me, out of all the people in the world, as the object of your highest and deepest love, and yet in doing that have only increased your power of loving others. Now what will you do to pay me for that speech?"

"Well, I'll relent. But you must at least pretend to be asleep. Come back and find another chair that you can rest in easily, and I will sit beside you. There, that will do. Now turn your head away from me, close your eyes, and promise me you won't open them till I tell you to do so. I intend to have the calm judgment of your ears uninfluenced by your sight or any other sense. If you can manage to fall asleep while I am singing, so much the better."

"Margaret," I replied, "I shall try hard to keep my eyes closed, but there isn't a drug in the ship's dispensary powerful enough to put me to sleep."

"Then keep quiet and think of Mona. That will be the next best occupation for you. Stop laughing, or I shall disappoint you, after all. I should think the memory of the first time I sang for you would be enough to sober you. Now I am going to turn away my head, so that if you do look around you won't see my face."

I said nothing in reply, being too eager to have her begin. And now I had not long to wait for the fulfillment of my oft-expressed desire.

Sweet and low came the first accents of her song, and, with all my anticipations and with the foretaste I had had in my sleep, I was not prepared for the effect they had on me. It was Mona's voice, but with every fine quality so exaggerated that all my faculties, now in the fullest sense awake, were completely taken captive. I made no movement, except to turn my head slightly so that I might drink in the sweet sounds with both ears. As the notes increased in volume my pleasure grew to rapture. Not only was my critical taste fully satisfied, which of itself was almost bliss, but that other and higher effect followed—my heart was enlisted. I had never known love till that hour. We had been introduced to each other years ago and had kept up a cold and formal acquaintance, and in my recent sleep we had made notable progress, but only now did love and I really clasp hands in a warm and lasting embrace.

If I had loved Margaret before, then the feeling I now had was something else, it was so different. But it was nothing else, and, therefore, I was obliged to conclude that I had lived all these years with a false notion in my head. As the song changed now and then, but did not stop, my heart swelled with its strong emotion, and I had the greatest difficulty to keep my promise and remain quiet. At length the music ceased, and I jumped from my chair with the intention of giving Margaret some palpable sign of my new love, when I was arrested by her warning hand and these words:

"Wait, Walter, someone is coming. I can see all you want to tell me in your face."

I was obliged to stop, and reserve for a more private place any violent manifestation of my exuberant affection, but answered quietly:

"Not all, dear Margaret. You will never know all my love." There was now more or less passing back and forth by the passengers, preparing for the approaching landing, but yet we were able to continue our conversation. At Margaret's request I told her more about Mona and Avis, and the principal incidents of what seemed to me a real experience, reserving the graver parts of the story for other occasions. Her sympathies went out particularly toward Mona, and suggested the question:

"Did not the poor child recover her voice?"

"I think she did soon after we left," I replied. "I neglected to tell you that, the morning we started for our last aerial trip, Antonia told me she was teaching Mona the use of the vocal organs, and the results were already such that she believed she would in a short time be entirely successful."

"How fortunate for me," said Margaret, laughing, "that you came away just then."

"Oh, Margaret," I exclaimed as loud as I dared, "I thought I was happy last night, but what shall I call my condition now? Do you have that intensity of feeling for me which is nearly bursting my heart?"

"Yes, my dear, I have had it for years. But my love is certainly increasing now, when I see yours flowering out so luxuriantly."

In such sweet converse the time passed rapidly. Steadily our noble vessel carried us every moment nearer home. And with the last words of Thorwald, "Go back to the earth," still ringing in my ears, we steamed amid familiar scenes—the lights from Long Island, New Jersey, Staten Island, and soon Liberty's torch, Governor's Island, and the great city in front of us. This voyage was ended, but our life's voyage seemed to be just beginning as I led Margaret forth with wonderful tenderness and whispered in her ear, passionately, the magic words, "I love you."



POSTSCRIPT.

Every book should have a purpose. Notwithstanding the popular character of much that is contained in these pages, the purpose of this volume is a serious one.

I acquired the belief in the habitability of other worlds when quite young, and it long ago grew into a settled conviction.

Firmly held by this idea, what is called the astronomical difficulty in theology gave me great concern. When I considered the vast extent of the universe, and saw, with but little imagination, millions on millions of habitable worlds, I felt the force of the old objection, How could our tiny earth have been chosen for such peculiar and high honor as we read of in the gospel story?

Thomas Chalmers, in the preface to his astronomical discourses, states the difficulty in these words: "This argument involves in it an assertion and an inference. The assertion is, that Christianity is a religion which professes to be designed for the single benefit of our world; and the inference is, that God cannot be the author of this religion, for he would not lavish on so insignificant a field such peculiar and such distinguishing attentions as are ascribed to him in the Old and New Testaments."

And then Dr. Chalmers proceeds in his able manner to overthrow both assertion and inference. He shows that it is only presumption for the infidel to claim that Christianity is designed solely for this world, and asks how he is able to tell us, "that if you go to other planets, the person and religion of Jesus are there unknown to them." "For anything he [the infidel] can tell," the writer continues, "the redemption proclaimed to us is not one solitary instance, or not the whole of that redemption which is by the Son of God;... the moral pestilence, which walks abroad over the face of our world, may have spread its desolation over all the planets of all the systems which the telescope has made known to us.... The eternal Son, of whom it is said that by him the worlds were created, may have had the government of many sinful worlds laid upon his shoulders."

In this and in all the rest of his argument Dr. Chalmers, while intimating that the redemption may include other worlds, retains the belief that the actual occurrences related in the gospel took place only on this globe. Others may have heard the story, or, as he beautifully says: "The wonder- working God, who has strewed the field of immensity with so many worlds, and spread the shelter of his omnipotence over them, may have sent a message of love to each, and reassured the hearts of its despairing people by some overpowering manifestation of tenderness.... Angels from paradise may have sped to every planet their delegated way, and sung from each azure canopy a joyful annunciation, and said, 'Peace be to this residence and good will to all its families, and glory to Him in the highest, who from the eminence of his throne has issued an act of grace so magnificent as to carry the tidings of life and of acceptance to the unnumbered orbs of a sinful creation.'"

But, as Dr. Chalmers truthfully says, it is not the infidel alone that raises this question. It is asked by many sincere believers, generally in communion with their own minds, and has disturbed, if not hindered, their faith. These brilliant discourses left me still perplexed on the main point, and I was forced to ask myself again if it was at all likely that one world could be made so unlike all others as to become the only scene of such a wonderful event as the death of the Son of God. And even if this could be made to seem probable, what an infinitesimal chance there would be that our earth would be the one chosen for this exhibition, out of the unnumbered worlds that fill the immensity of space.

As a feeble hint toward a possible solution of this difficulty, this volume is offered. The argument may not be acceptable to a single reader. I do not say that I believe it myself; but the thought has helped to satisfy my mind and may be of assistance to some other soul. I will merely say that, of course, I do not believe the analogy between any two worlds is so close as I have made it, for the purposes of the story, between Mars and the earth.

In my effort to relieve the book of dullness, I have exaggerated some of the situations, as in the treatment of the woman question for example, but the intelligent reader will easily discover whether there be anything of value remaining after the extravagance has been brushed away.

Alvan Clark & Sons, the celebrated makers of telescopic lenses, in view of their recent successes in casting larger object-glasses than was once thought possible, now assert that they can place no limit to the size these glasses may reach in the future. It is only a question of time, skill, patience, and money.

Is it, then, presumptuous to believe that the day will dawn when this world will know whether Venus or Mars is inhabited? And if either or both of them shall be found to be peopled, among the many questions of engrossing interest to be studied it seems clear to me that the most important will be the moral and spiritual condition of the inhabitants.

THE AUTHOR.

THE END