It simply has NO other side, except space.

Space is the canvas--the Moon is a sketch.

How interested we are when a discovery is made of some rare old painting, of which the subject is a perfectly beautiful woman! It bears no name--perhaps no date--but the face that smiles at us is exquisite--the lips yet pout for kisses--the eyes brim over, with love! And we admire it tenderly and reverently--we mark it 'Portrait of a lady,' and give it an honoured place among our art collections.

With how much more reverence and tenderness ought we to look up at the 'Portrait of a Fair Lost Sphere,' circling yonder in that dense ever-moving gallery of wonders where the hurrying throng of spectators are living and dying worlds!" I had followed the speaker's words with fascinated attention, but now I said: "Dying, Heliobas?
There is no death." "True!" he answered, with hesitating slowness.

"But there is what we call death--transition--and it is always a parting." "But not for long!" I exclaimed, with all the gladness and eagerness of my lately instructed soul.