In the infinite, infinite distance, millions of miles away, the sky opened as it were.

There in the opening was Anthony talking with one whom she knew for their daughter, the baby that had died, talking of her.

In a minute they were gone, but she had seen them, she was sure that she had seen them, and the knowledge warmed her heart.
So there was no error, the Bible was true, more or less; Faith was not built on running water or on sand.

Life was not a mere hellish mockery, where tiaras turned to crowns of thorn and joy was but an inch rule by which to measure the alps of human pain.

Life was a door, a gateway.
The door dreadful, the gate perilous, if you will, but beyond it lay no dream, no empty blackness.