why should men fight so abjectly to retain the few last threads of life, the only thing that keeps them from Celestial Paradise? Can it be possible that faith itself is but a fragile thing? Is religion no more than folklore, and the countless blessings held out to us akin to the fables of Æsop? If one had a friend living in a mighty house who invited one to a feast, there would be no hesitancy. Yet when death beckons to a feast of living, to eternal life where there is neither sadness nor pain, one hesitates. It rather mars the beautiful conceptions we all have of divinity. It seems to me that religion needs super-salesmen to sell it to the multitude, salesmen who can inspire faith in the product. When this can be accomplished, there will be hope for mankind. Death is really a beautiful adventure. One should go out into the fields to greet it as one greets the dawn, with arms outstretched and a song on one's lips. For there to be a birth a woman must go down to the valley of death to produce life. In this, death is superior to life, for it is not necessary to go up to the mountains of life to produce death."
Steve Garland stopped abruptly. "I fear I am boring you," he apologized, "but then I always talk too much. That is due to the fact that I am doomed to die young and have much to say. Therefore I must talk fast so that my eloquence may not be wasted."
"You are very interesting," said Mary.
"That is because I walk hand in hand with death," he explained. "Death is always interesting, an ever-faithful lover. A few other facts I will mention, so that you may know something about me. I am an artist. I paint portraits. Success has been easy. I am successful in all the arts except the art of living. Somehow that greatest art of all evades me. I have plenty of money. Enough to last me the rest of my life. Unfortunately I have not enough life to last me for the rest of my money. It is truly provoking."
"I never met anybody like you," she said truthfully.
"And perhaps you never will again," he mused. "It is not a good habit to associate with ghosts. Ghosts are cold. Feel my fingers. They are like ice. A beautiful woman should want a
54
