Death has been defined as the cessation from correspondence with environment—a logical and scientific statement which, while it is perfectly accurate, still leaves room for every article of the Christian faith. Sleep, in a sense, is this also: and we have the authority of Holy Writ itself that many revelations have come to the dreamer of dreams.
Mary lay back in her arm-chair, and the dewy loveliness of her face would, in its perfection, have shown no trace of what was passing in her sub-conscious mind to an onlooker. But all her life was being unfolded to her in a strange panorama as she slept. From first to last everything that had ever happened to her was unwound as if from the spool of Fate itself. She saw all the events of her life as if she were standing apart from them and they were another's. But, more than all this, she saw also, in a dread and mysterious revelation, the purpose, the controlling purpose of God, which had brought these events about.
It was as though she was vouchsafed a glimpse into the workings of the Divine mind; as if all the operations of God's providence, as they had been connected with her past, were now suddenly made clear.
On some dark and mysterious fabric, half seen and but little understood, the real pattern had flashed out—clear, vivid, and unmistakable, while the golden threads that went through warp and woof were plain at last.
On and on went the strange procession of events, until she found herself upon the lonely mountain-tops of Wales. Her dead brother was there, and praying for her. She heard his passionate, appealing voice, she saw with his very mind itself. Joseph was there also, and Mary began to understand something of the miracle that had made the Teacher what he was, that had changed him as Saul was changed.
And at this moment the color of the dream began to be less real and vivid, while its panoramic movement was greatly accelerated.
She was as though suddenly removed to a great distance, and saw all things with a blurred vision as the present approached. Then her sensations entirely changed. She no longer saw pictures of the past explained for her in the light of a supernatural knowledge. All that was over. Her whole heart and mind were filled with the sense of some strange presence which was coming nearer and nearer—nearer and nearer still.
Then, quite suddenly and plainly, she saw that the figure of Lluellyn Lys was standing in the centre of the room, clear and luminous. The figure was that of her dead brother as she had last seen him, and seemed perfectly substantial and real. It was seen in the darkness by an aurora of pale light that seemed to emanate from it, as if the flesh—if flesh indeed it was—exhaled an atmosphere of light.
Mary fell upon her knees. "Brother—brother!" she cried, stretching out her hands in supplication. "Dear brother, speak to me! Tell me why you are here from the grave!"
There was no answer in words. The face of the figure grew much brighter than the rest, and the weeping, imploring girl saw upon it a peace so perfect, a joy so serene and high, a beatitude so unspeakable, that her sobs and moans died away into silence as she gazed at the transfigured countenance in breathless awe and wonder.