DO WE TRULY DIE?
of surprise and protest, and fixed accusing eyes upon him. For the moment he did not interrupt.
"But it is not I that am immortal, but the God within me. All this personal immortality of which you talk is a mockery of our personalities. What is there personal in us that can live? What makes us our very selves? It is all a matter of little mean things, small differences, slight defects. Where does personal love grip?—on just these petty things. . . . Oh! dearly and bitterly did I love my son, and what is it that my heart most craves for now? His virtues? No! His ambitions? His achievements?. . . No! none of these things. . . . But for a certain queer flush among his freckles, for a kind of high crack in his voice. . . a certain absurd hopefulness in his talk. . . the sound of his footsteps, a little halt there was in the rhythm of them. These are the things we long for. These are the things that wring the heart. . . . But all these things are just the mortal things, just the defects that would be touched out upon this higher plane you talk about. You would give him back to me smoothed and polished and regularised. So, I grant, it must be if there is to be this higher plane. But what does it leave of personal distinction? What does it leave of personal love?
"When my son has had his defects smoothed away, then he will be like all sons. When the older men have been ironed out, they will be like the younger men. There is no personality in hope and honour and righteousness and truth. . . . My son has gone. He has gone for evermore. The pain may
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