“Surely not,” I said.
“Then we will say the principle is different and for the present let it rest. Now tell me, if you can, what the first sensation following failure is?”
“I should say darkness.”
She smiled and opened the inner door, and we were greeted with a flood of light.
She passed in and I followed, and the door closed behind us.
Light and music greeted us on every side, coming from some invisible source. Divided off in glass cases and partitions by themselves were the works of the poor creatures who had failed, not of one class only, but of all.
“These are only the outward crusts and shells,” she said. “We make more use of the inner essences. Those we appropriate within ourselves to bring in future time to full perfection. But these are undergoing here a perfect change from dark to light. Here is something brought to me the other day, the outward husk of marriage, that seeming bright like some pure brilliant flower at outset turned to soft dust and black decay, slipping from out the hopeful grasp. It is at present very dull and dark, with no shape and quite devoid of beauty, but with time, and the treatment we shall give it, it will alter, and when the owner sees it once again it will be a thing of rare beauty, a priceless jewel above mortal worth. Here is another that has almost come to the true length of time. You will perceive how the golden rays have become worked into it till its dull hue has changed to brilliancy. So do they all alter.”
“And this music—from whence does it spring?”
“It is the lonely sighing of poor prisoners—the weakening sobs, the painful gasps—yes, and those bitter cries that only spirits ever hear aright.”
“Then,” said I, “you accept all failures.”