So at least we think, who seek not variation but continuance, since the spirit must differ from the body and that thought alarms our intelligence.
At least some of us think so; others, like Bickley, write down the future as a black and endless night, which after all has its consolations since, as has been wisely suggested, perhaps oblivion is better than any memories.

Others again, like Bastin, would say of it with the Frenchman, plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.

Yet others, like Oro, consider it as a realm of possibilities, probably unpleasant and perhaps non-existent; just this and nothing more.

Only one thing is certain, that no creature which has life desires to leap into the fire and from the dross of doubts, to resolve the gold--or the lead--of certainty.
"It is time to be going," said Bastin.

"In these skies the sun seems to tumble down, not to set decently as it does in England, and if we wait any longer we shall be late for our appointment in the sepulchre.