"Good evening," said Mr. Newman cheerfully. "You'd forgotten to expect me, I suppose. But I'm here, all the same."
"All right," said Carrick. "Sit down somewhere, will you?"
He rose and shoved a chair forward with his foot for Mr. Newman's accommodation, and began to walk slowly to and fro with his hands in his pockets.
"Well," said Newman; "and what's this miracle we're to work?"
"I'll show you," said Carrick, still walking. He stopped and turned toward his guest. "Newman," he said, "where do you reckon you were a hundred years ago?"
Mr. Newman laughed, crossing his legs as he sat.
"I'm not as old as that," he replied. "Whatever place you're thinking of, I wasn't there."
Carrick was frowning thoughtfully. "I'm not thinking of places," he said. "You—you exist; the matter that composes you is indestructible; the—the essential you, the thing in that matter that makes it mean something, the soul, if you like—that's indestructible, too. Everything's indestructible. A hundred years hence, you'll be somewhere; but where were you—you, that is—a hundred years ago?"
He pointed the "you" with a jabbing forefinger as he spoke it, standing in front of Mr. Newman in the lamplight and talking down to him.
"Oh!" said Mr. Newman, "I see—yes! A hundred years, ago I was part of my Maker's unfinished plan of to-day."