"And no sorrow?" asked Anne.
"Sorrow," replied Marian, "that is of the mind, and the mind is part of ourselves."
"Separation is the worst," replied Anne. "Separation." "Suppose," she thought, "that I am really in another existence, where then is my dear, old John, my husband?"
"Marian," she cried out, "I must go home; at once!"
"But my dear," said Marian, "you cannot; as a mortal you could not come here; how then can you now go there? Oh, Anne, there are many loved ones waiting for you here. Many who loved you. We knew you would arrive suddenly; we were warned of that; I came first—it was thought best—to prepare you for the great meeting."
"I tell you," said Anne, sharply, "I am going home. John will miss me. I have been too long away already."
"Your mother, Anne, she is coming," pleaded Marian.
"Not mother, nor father, nor friends beloved can come between John and me. I must see John first. Something may have happened."
She looked about her. "I don't quite know where I am. There should be people about. I see no one to put me on the road."
"Anne," said Marian, "neither you nor I can find that road."