What had come to her? Had the ecstasy of the “real cross” drawn her up into itself? Had she for a finality won away into the company of those who unintermittingly do the will-of-wisdom?
Free and far through Emperean space on wings of vision fleetly she fled, gleaming from the gladness of the star-filled air the truth (known to the intelligences) of the meaning of that victory won over Semiramis, when defeated on the banks of the Indus she flew away in the form of a dove. For the starry hosts were showing them the meaning of the “whirling wheel of Ixion,” on which the spirit of the world will still be crucified until the coming-woman, by self-use, shall have expressed to the race her relation to the world’s work, and worship; and so shall have healed it of its woes.
And the two men to whom Ethel was giving participance in all she was sharing with the angels, heard jubilates in the upper air, pitifully tremulant, yet glad, which revealed that the cries of the world are but the growing pains which all endure while getting the growths that bring forth new forms of life, of knowledge and beauty.
To Paul Palmer’s entranced uplook, it seemed as if the bounding moon, shining through the great window back of where Ethel stood, could hardly wait for gladness in going through the blue; where the sparkling stars were the dust of the wisdom of the ages, transmuted into the gold of those supernal heights.
And lovingly laughing together, the moon and earth and they seemed bounding through realms where old beyond compare had grown that seed-thought, which now, falling to earth, is sowing itself and springing up daily in the electrical doings of those who, inwardly yearning for it, put forth the deeds which the reception of this seed enables.
On, on, through spheres where the inhabitants know full well that the crassness of selfhood is but the undeveloped manner of the creature, as it struggles toward the real humanity, whose spirit is a form of WILL refined to WISDOM.
On and on—till—oh, ecstasy—next—
“Ethel, my daughter.”
It was to the three as if those words had buffeted their way to them across ages of absence and realms of peace. Then, somewhere in the star-garden it seemed Daniel must have met them. As friendlily near, with swiftness indescribable, they shot earthward together (or thus it seemed) lighting so, as a thistle-down alights upon the earth.
Ethel’s eyes met Daniel’s as he stood beside her; and with the memory of how the star-seed was sowing the earth with thoughts for this new age, she cried out ringingly: “Was such bravery of beauty ever before seen by you, Daniel?” Then—“oh, I understand,” she whispered hushedly, steadying herself and them all.