this the offering I would hasten to make to him? … But in supreme moments, when need or insight is quickened, so that the soul casts off her wrapping of flesh and rises alone, keen in her pain or spiritual joy, then who is to say that she felt not the stirring of her comrade? Who is to say that she was not enfolded by a prayer or a tenderness from beyond?
Look at the Catholic picture of a woman, brooding over the world, in its sin and sorrow, in eternal prayer.
Look at the Mussulman dream of a bride, setting between herself and God, as her bridal dower, the salvation of every Mussulman.
These are race-visions. And they are true. They are the great pulsations, the heart-beats of Humanity, made up of a million tiny pulses, the efforts of individual souls.
The dead do intercede, do pray, do remember us in God.
Death, then, makes nothing different.
