{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_10050/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_10050","id":"gutenberg_10050","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10050","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Death -- Fiction"],"text":"A LITTLE PILGRIM\n\n                    By Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant\n\n\n\n\nA LITTLE PILGRIM.\n\n\n\n\nI.\n\nIN THE UNSEEN.\n\n\nShe had been talking of dying only the evening before, with a friend, and\nhad described her own sensations after a long illness when she had been\nat the point of death. \"I suppose,\" she said, \"that I was as nearly gone\nas any one ever was to come back again. There was no pain in it, only a\nsense of sinking down, down--through the bed as if nothing could hold me\nor give me support enough--but no pain.\" And then they had spoken of\nanother friend in the same circumstances, who also had come back from the\nvery verge, and who described her sensations as those of one floating\nupon a summer sea without pain or suffering, in a lovely nook of the\nMediterranean, blue as the sky. These soft and soothing images of the\npassage which all men dread had been talked over with low voices, yet\nwith smiles and a grateful sense that \"the warm precincts of the cheerful\nday\" were once more familiar to both. And very cheerfully she went to\nrest that night, talking of what was to be done on the morrow, and fell\nasleep sweetly in her little room, with its shaded light and curtained\nwindow, and little pictures on the dim walls. All was quiet in the house:\nsoft breathing of the sleepers, soft murmuring of the spring wind\noutside, a wintry moon very clear and full in the skies, a little town\nall hushed and quiet, everything lying defenceless, unconscious, in the\nsafe keeping of God.\n\nHow soon she woke no one can tell. She woke and lay quite still, half\nroused, half hushed, in that soft languor that attends a happy waking.\nShe was happy always, in the peace of a heart that was humble and\nfaithful and pure, but yet had been used to wake to a consciousness of\nlittle pains and troubles, such as even to her meekness were sometimes\nhard to bear. But on this morning there were none of these. She lay in a\nkind of hush of happiness and ease, not caring to make any further\nmovement, lingering over the sweet sensation of that waking. She had no\ndesire to move nor to break the spell of the silence and peace. It was\nstill very early, she supposed, and probably it might be hours yet before\nany one came to call her. It might even be that she should sleep again.\nShe had no wish to move, she lay at such luxurious ease and calm. But by\nand by, as she came to full possession of her waking senses, it appeared\nto her that there was some change in the atmosphere, in the scene. There\nbegan to steal into the air about her, the soft dawn as of a summer\nmorning, the lovely blueness of the first opening of daylight before the\nsun. It could not be the light of the moon, which she had seen before she\nwent to bed; and all was so still, that it could not be the bustling,\nwintry day which comes at that time of the year late, to find the world\nawake before it. This was different; it was like the summer dawn, a soft\nsuffusion of light growing every moment. And by and by it occurred to\nher that she was not in the little room where she had lain down. There\nwere no dim walls or roof, her little pictures were all gone, the\ncurtains at her window. The discovery gave her no uneasiness in that\ndelightful calm. She lay still to think of it all, to wonder, yet\nundisturbed. It half amused her that these things should be changed, but\ndid not rouse her yet with any shock of alteration. The light grew fuller\nand fuller round, growing into day, clearing her eyes from the sweet mist\nof the first waking. Then she raised herself upon her arm. She was not in\nher room, she was in no scene she knew. Indeed it was scarcely a scene at\nall, nothing but light, so soft and lovely, that it soothed and caressed\nher eyes. She thought all at once of a summer morning when she was a\nchild, when she had woke in the deep night which yet was day, early, so\nearly that the birds were scarcely astir, and had risen up with a\ndelicious sense of daring and of being all alone in the mystery of the\nsunrise, in the unawakened world which lay at her feet to be explored, as\nif she were Eve just entering upon Eden. It was curious how all those\nchildish sensations, long forgotten, came back to her as she found\nherself so unexpectedly out of her sleep in the open air and light. In\nthe recollection of that lovely hour, with a smile at herself, so\ndifferent as she now knew herself to be, she was moved to rise and look a\nlittle more closely about her, and see where she was.\n\nWhen I call her a little Pilgrim, I do not mean that she was a child; on\nthe contrary, she was not even young. She was little by nature, with as\nlittle flesh and blood as was consistent with mortal life; and she was\none of those who are always little for love. The tongue found diminutives\nfor her, the heart kept her in a perpetual youth. She was so modest and\nso gentle, that she always came last, so long as there was any one whom\nshe could put before her. But this little body, and the soul which was\nnot little, and the heart which was big and great, had known all the\nround of sorrows that fill a woman's life, without knowing any of its\nwarmer blessings. She had nursed the sick, she had entertained the weary,\nshe had consoled the dying. She had gone about the world, which had no\nprize or recompense for her, with a smile. Her little presence had been\nalways bright. She was not clever; you might have said she had no mind at\nall; but so wise and right and tender a heart, that it was as good as\ngenius. This is to let you know what this little Pilgrim had been.\n\nShe rose up, and it was strange how like she felt to the child she\nremembered in that still summer morning so many years ago. Her little\nbody, which had been worn and racked with pain, felt as light and\nunconscious of itself as then. She took her first step forward with the\nsame sense of pleasure, yet of awe, suppressed delight and daring and\nwild adventure, yet perfect safety. But then the recollection of the\nlittle room in which she had fallen asleep came quickly, strangely over\nher, confusing her mind. \"I must be dreaming, I suppose,\" she said to\nherself, regretfully; for it was all so sweet that she wished it to be\ntrue. Her movement called her attention to herself, and she found that\nshe was dressed, not in her night-dress, as she had lain down, but in a\ndress she did not know. She paused for a moment to look at it, and\nwonder. She had never seen it before; she did not make out how it was\nmade, or what stuff it was, but it fell so pleasantly about her, it was\nso soft and light, that in her confused state she abandoned that subject\nwith only an additional sense of pleasure. And now the atmosphere became\nmore distinct to her. She saw that under her feet was a greenness as of\nclose velvet turf, both cool and warm, cool and soft to touch, but with\nno damp in it, as might have been at that early hour, and with flowers\nshowing here and there. She stood looking round her, not able to identify\nthe landscape because she was still confused a little, and then walked\nsoftly on, all the time afraid lest she should awake and lose the\nsweetness of it all, and the sense of rest and happiness. She felt so\nlight, so airy, as if she could skim across the field like any child. It\nwas bliss enough to breathe and move, with every organ so free. After\nmore than fifty years of hard service in the world, to feel like this,\neven in a dream! She smiled to herself at her own pleasure; and then once\nmore, yet more potently, there came back upon her the appearance of her\nroom in which she had fallen asleep. How had she got from there to here?\nHad she been carried away in her sleep, or was it only a dream, and would\nshe by and by find herself between the four dim walls again? Then this\nshadow of recollection faded away once more, and she moved forward,\nwalking in a soft rapture over the delicious turf. Presently she came to\na little mound, upon which she paused to look about her. Every moment she\nsaw a little farther: blue hills far away, extending in long, sweet\ndistance, an indefinite landscape, but fair and vast, so that there could\nbe seen no end to it, not even the line of the horizon,--save at one\nside, where there seemed to be a great shadowy gateway, and something dim\nbeyond. She turned from the brightness to look at this, and when she had\nlooked for some time, she saw, what pleased her still more, though she\nhad been so happy before, people coming in. They were too far off for her\nto see clearly, but many came each apart, one figure only at a time. To\nwatch them amused her in the delightful leisure of her mind. Who were\nthey? she wondered; but no doubt soon some of them would come this way,\nand she would see. Then suddenly she seemed to hear, as if in answer to\nher question, some one say, \"Those who are coming in are the people\nwho have died on earth.\" \"Died!\" she said to herself aloud, with a\nwondering sense of the inappropriateness of the word which almost came\nthe length of laughter. In this sweet air, with such a sense of life\nabout, to suggest such an idea was almost ludicrous. She was so occupied\nwith this, that she did not look round to see who the speaker might be.\nShe thought it over, amused, but with some new confusion of the mind.\nThen she said, \"Perhaps I have died too,\" with a laugh to herself at the\nabsurdity of the thought.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the other voice, echoing that gentle laugh of hers, \"you have\ndied too.\"\n\nShe turned round, and saw another standing by her, a woman, younger and\nfairer, and more stately than herself, but of so sweet a countenance that\nour little Pilgrim felt no shyness, but recognized a friend at once. She\nwas more occupied looking at this new face, and feeling herself at once\nso much happier (though she had been so happy before) in finding a\ncompanion who would tell her what everything was, than in considering\nwhat these words might mean. But just then once more the recollection of\nthe four walls, with their little pictures hanging, and the window with\nits curtains drawn, seemed to come round her for a moment, so that her\nwhole soul was in a confusion. And as this vision slowly faded away\n(though she could not tell which was the vision, the darkened room or\nthis lovely light), her attention came back to the words at which she\nhad laughed, and at which the other had laughed as she repeated them.\nDied?--was it possible that this could be the meaning of it all? \"Died?\"\nshe said, looking with wonder in her companion's face, which smiled back\nto her.\n\n\"But do you mean--You cannot mean--I have never been so well: I am so\nstrong: I have no trouble--anywhere: I am full of life.\"\n\nThe other nodded her beautiful head with a more beautiful smile, and the\nlittle Pilgrim burst out in a great cry of joy, and said,--\"Is this all?\nIs it over?--Is it all over? Is it possible that this can be all?\"\n\n\"Were you afraid of it?\" the other said. There was a little agitation for\nthe moment in her heart. She was so glad, so relieved and thankful, that\nit took away her breath. She could not get over the wonder of it.\n\n\"To think one should look forward to it so long, and wonder, and be even\nunhappy trying to divine what it will be--and this all!\"\n\n\"Ah, but the angel was very gentle with you,\" said the young woman; \"you\nwere so tender and worn, that he only smiled and took you sleeping. There\nare other ways. But it is always wonderful to think it is over, as you\nsay.\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim could do nothing but talk of it, as one does after a\nvery great event. \"Are you sure, quite sure, it is so?\" she said. \"It\nwould be dreadful to find it only a dream, to go to sleep again, and wake\nup--there--\" This thought troubled her for a moment. The vision of the\nbedchamber came back; but this time she felt it was only a vision. \"Were\nyou afraid too?\" she said, in a low voice.\n\n\"I never thought of it at all,\" the beautiful stranger said; \"I did not\nthink it would come to me. But I was very sorry for the others to whom it\ncame, and grudged that they should lose the beautiful earth, and life,\nand all that was so sweet.\"\n\n\"My dear!\" cried the Pilgrim, as if she had never died, \"oh, but this is\nfar sweeter! And the heart is so light, and it is, happiness only to\nbreathe. Is it heaven here? It must be heaven.\"\n\n\"I do not know if it is heaven. We have so many things to learn. They\ncannot tell you every thing at once,\" said the beautiful lady. \"I have\nseen some of the people I was sorry for, and when I told them, we\nlaughed--as you and I laughed just now--for pleasure.\"\n\n\"That makes me think\" said the little Pilgrim; \"if I have died, as you\nsay--which is so strange, and me so living--if I have died, they will\nhave found it out. The house will be all dark, and they will be breaking\ntheir hearts. Oh, how could I forget them in my selfishness, and be\nhappy! I so light-hearted, while they--\"\n\nShe sat down hastily, and covered her face with her hands and wept. The\nother looked at her for a moment, then kissed her for comfort, and cried\ntoo. The two happy creatures sat there weeping together, thinking of\nthose they had left behind, with an exquisite grief which was not\nunhappiness, which was sweet with love and pity. \"And oh,\" said the\nlittle Pilgrim, \"what can we do to tell them not to grieve? Cannot\nyou send? cannot you speak? cannot one go to tell them?\"\n\nThe heavenly stranger shook her head.\n\n\"It is not well, they all say. Sometimes one has been permitted; but they\ndo not know you,\" she said, with a pitiful look in her sweet eyes. \"My\nmother told me that her heart was so sick for me, she was allowed to go;\nand she went and stood by me, and spoke to me, and I did not know her.\nShe came back so sad and sorry, that they took her at once to our\nFather; and there, you know, she found that it was all well. All is well\nwhen you are there.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said the little Pilgrim, \"I have been thinking of other things. Of\nhow happy I was, and of _them_; but never of the Father,--just as\nif I had not died.\"\n\nThe other smiled upon her with a wonderful smile.\n\n\"Do you think he will be offended--our Father--as if he were one of us?\"\nshe said.\n\nAnd then the little Pilgrim, in her sudden grief to have forgotten him,\nbecame conscious of a new rapture unexplainable in words. She felt his\nunderstanding to envelop her little spirit with a soft and clear\npenetration, and that nothing she did or said could ever be misconceived\nmore. \"Will you take me to him?\" she said, trembling yet glad, clasping\nher hands. And once again the other shook her head.\n\n\"They will take us both when it is time,\" she said: \"we do not go at our\nown will. But I have seen our Brother--\"\n\n\"Oh, take me to him!\" the little Pilgrim cried. \"Let me see his face! I\nhave so many things to say to him. I want to ask him--Oh, take me to\nwhere I can see his face!\"\n\nAnd then once again the heavenly lady smiled.\n\n\"I have seen him,\" she said. \"He is always about--now here, now there. He\nwill come and see you, perhaps when you are not thinking. But when he\npleases. We do not think here of what we will--\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim sat very still, wondering at all this. She had thought\nwhen a soul left the earth that it went at once to God, and thought of\nnothing more, except worship and singing of praises. But this was\ndifferent from her thoughts. She sat and pondered and wondered. She was\nbaffled at many points. She was not changed, as she expected, but so much\nlike herself; still--still perplexed, and feeling herself foolish; not\nunderstanding: toiling after a something which she could not grasp. The\nonly difference was that it was no trouble to her now. She smiled at\nherself and at her dullness, feeling sure that by and by she would\nunderstand.\n\n\"And don't you wonder too?\" she said to her companion, which was a speech\nsuch as she used to make upon the earth, when people thought her little\nremarks disjointed, and did not always see the connection of them. But\nher friend of heaven knew what she meant.\n\n\"I do nothing but wonder,\" she said, \"for it is all so natural, not what\nwe thought.\"\n\n\"Is it long since you have been here?\" the Pilgrim said.\n\n\"I came before you; but how long or how short I cannot tell, for that is\nnot how we count. We count only by what happens to us. And nothing yet\nhas happened to me, except that I have seen our Brother. My mother sees\nhim always. That means she has lived here a long time, and well--\"\n\n\"Is it possible to live ill--in heaven?\" The little Pilgrim's eyes grew\nlarge, as if they were going to have tears in them, and a little shadow\nseemed to come over her. But the other laughed softly, and restored all\nher confidence.\n\n\"I have told you I do not know if it is heaven or not. No one does ill,\nbut some do little, and some do much, just as it used to be. Do you\nremember in Dante there was a lazy spirit that stayed about the gates and\nnever got farther? But perhaps you never read that.\"\n\n\"I was not clever,\" said the little Pilgrim, wistfully; \"no, I never read\nit. I wish I had known more.\"\n\nUpon which the beautiful lady kissed her again to give her courage, and\nsaid,--\n\n\"It does not matter at all. It all comes to you, whether you have known\nit or not.\"\n\n\"Then your mother came here long ago?\" said the Pilgrim. \"Ah, then I\nshall see my mother too.\"\n\n\"Oh, very soon, as soon as she can come; but there are so many things to\ndo. Sometimes we can go and meet those who are coming; but it is not\nalways so. I remember that she had a message. She could not leave her\nbusiness, you may be sure, or she would have been here.\"\n\n\"Then you know my mother? Oh, and my dearest father too?\"\n\n\"We all know each other,\" the lady said with a smile.\n\n\"And you? did you come to meet me--only out of kindness, though I do not\nknow you?\" the little Pilgrim said.\n\n\"I am nothing but an idler,\" said the beautiful lady, \"making\nacquaintance. I am of little use as yet. I was very hard worked before I\ncame here, and they think it well that we should sit in the sun and take\na little rest, and find things out.\"\n\nThen the little Pilgrim sat still and mused, and felt in her heart that\nshe had found many things out. What she had heard had been wonderful, and\nit was more wonderful still to be sitting here all alone, save for this\nlady, yet so happy and at ease. She wanted to sing, she was so happy;\nbut remembered that she was old; and had lost her voice; and then\nremembered again that she was no longer old, and perhaps had found it\nagain. And then it occurred to her to remember how she had learned to\nsing, and how beautiful her sister's voice was, and how heavenly to\nhear her,--which made her remember that this dear sister would be\nweeping, not singing, down where she had come from; and immediately the\ntears stood in her eyes.\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, \"I never thought we should cry when we came here. I\nthought there were no tears in heaven.\"\n\n\"Did you think, then, that we were all turned into stone?\" cried the\nbeautiful lady. \"It says God shall wipe away all tears from our faces,\nwhich is not like saying there are to be no tears.\"\n\nUpon which the little Pilgrim, glad that it was permitted to be sorry,\nthough she was so happy, allowed herself to think upon the place she had\nso lately left. And she seemed to see her little room again, with all the\npictures hanging as she had left them, and the house darkened, and the\ndear faces she knew all sad and troubled, and to hear them saying over to\neach other all the little careless words she had said as if they were out\nof the Scriptures, and crying if any one but mentioned her name, and\nputting on crape and black dresses, and lamenting as if that which had\nhappened was something very terrible. She cried at this, and yet felt\nhalf inclined to laugh, but would not, because it would be disrespectful\nto those she loved. One thing did not occur to her, and that was, that\nthey would be carrying her body, which she had left behind her, away to\nthe grave. She did not think of this, because she was not aware of the\nloss, and felt far too much herself to think that there was another part\nof her being buried in the ground. From this she was aroused by her\ncompanion asking her a question.\n\n\"Have you left many there?\" she said.\n\n\"No one,\" said the little Pilgrim, \"to whom I was the first on earth; but\nthey loved me all the same; and if I could only, only let them know--\"\n\n\"But I left one to whom I was the first on earth,\" said the other, with\ntears in her beautiful eyes; \"and oh, how glad I should be to be less\nhappy if he might be less sad!\"\n\n\"And you cannot go? you cannot go to him and tell him? Oh, I wish,\" cried\nthe little Pilgrim; but then she paused, for the wish died all away in\nher heart into a tender love for this poor, sorrowful man whom she did\nnot know. This gave her the sweetest pang she had ever felt, for she knew\nthat all was well, and yet was so sorry, and would have willingly given\nup her happiness for his. All this the lady read in her eyes or her\nheart, and loved her for it; and they took hands and were silent\ntogether, thinking of those they had left, as we upon earth think of\nthose who have gone from us, but only with far more understanding and far\ngreater love. \"And have you never been able to do anything for him?\" our\nPilgrim said.\n\nThen the beautiful lady's face flushed all over with the most heavenly\nwarmth and light. Her smile ran over like the bursting out of the sun.\n\n\"Oh, I will tell you,\" she said. \"There was a moment when he was very sad\nand perplexed, not knowing what to think; there was something he could\nnot understand. Nor could I understand, nor did I know what it was, until\nit was said to me, 'You may go and tell him.' And I went in the early\nmorning before he was awake, and kissed him, and said it in his ear. He\nwoke up in a moment, and understood, and everything was clear to him.\nAfterward I heard him say, 'It is true that the night brings counsel. I\nhad been troubled and distressed all day long, but in the morning it was\nquite clear to me.' And the other answered, 'Your brain was refreshed,\nand that made your judgment clear.' But they never knew it was I! That\nwas a great delight. The dear souls, they are so foolish,\" she cried,\nwith the sweetest laughter, that ran into tears. \"One cries because one\nis so happy; it is just a silly old habit,\" she said.\n\n\"And you were not grieved--it did not hurt you--that he did not know--\"\n\n\"Oh, not then, not then! I did not go to him for that. When you have been\nhere a little longer, you will see the difference. When you go for\nyourself, out of impatience, because it still seems to you that you must\nknow best, and they don't know you, then it strikes to your heart; but\nwhen you go to help them,--ah,\" she cried, \"when he comes, how much I\nshall have to tell him! 'You thought it was sleep, when it was I; when\nyou woke so fresh and clear, it was I that kissed you; you thought it\nyour duty to me to be sad afterward, and were angry with yourself because\nyou had wronged me of the first thoughts of your waking--when it was all\nme, all through!'\"\n\n\"I begin to understand,\" said the little Pilgrim. \"But why should they\nnot see us, and why should not we tell them? It would seem so natural. If\nthey saw us, it would make them so happy and so sure.\"\n\nUpon this the lady shook her head.\n\n\"The worst of it is not that they are not sure, it is the parting. If\nthis makes us sorry here, how can they escape the sorrow of it, even if\nthey saw us?--for we must be parted. We cannot go back to live with them,\nor why should we have died? And then we must all live our lives, they in\ntheir way, we in ours. We must not weigh them down, but only help them\nwhen it is seen that there is need for it. All this we shall know better\nby and by.\"\n\n\"You make it so clear, and your face is so bright,\" said our little\nPilgrim gratefully, \"you must have known a great deal, and understood\neven when you were in the world.\"\n\n\"I was as foolish as I could be,\" said the other, with her laugh that was\nas sweet as music; \"yet thought I knew, and they thought I knew. But all\nthat does not matter now.\"\n\n\"I think it matters, for look how much you have showed me. But tell me\none thing more: how was it said to you that you must go and tell him? Was\nit some one who spoke? Was it--\"\n\nHer face grew so bright that all the past brightness was as a dull sky to\nthis. It gave out such a light of happiness, that the little Pilgrim was\ndazzled.\n\n\"I was wandering about,\" she said, \"to see this new place. My mother had\ncome back between two errands she had, and had come to see me and tell me\neverything; and I was straying about, wondering what I was to do, when\nsuddenly I saw some one coming along, as it might be now--\"\n\nShe paused and looked up, and the little Pilgrim looked up too, with her\nheart beating, but there was no one. Then she gave a little sigh, and\nturned and listened again.\n\n\"I had not been looking for him, or thinking. You know my mind is too\nlight; I am pleased with whatever is before me. And I was so curious, for\nmy mother had told me many things; when suddenly I caught sight of him\npassing by. He was going on, and when I saw this a panic seized me, lest\nhe should pass and say nothing. I do not know what I did. I flung myself\nupon his robe, and got hold of it,--or at least I think so. I was in such\nan agony lest he should pass and never notice me. But that was my folly.\nHe pass! As if that could be!\"\n\n\"And what did he say to you?\" cried the little Pilgrim, her heart almost\naching, it beat so high with sympathy and expectation.\n\nThe lady looked at her for a little without saying anything.\n\n\"I cannot tell you,\" she said, \"any more than I can tell if this is\nheaven. It is a mystery. When you see him you will know. It will be all\nyou have ever hoped for, and more besides, for he understands everything.\nHe knows what is in our hearts about those we have left, and why he sent\nfor us before them. There is no need to tell him anything, he knows. He\nwill come when it is time; and after you have seen him you will know what\nto do.\"\n\nThen the beautiful lady turned her eyes toward the gate, and while the\nlittle Pilgrim was still gazing, disappeared from her, and went to\ncomfort some other stranger. They were dear friends always, and met\noften, but not again in the same way.\n\nWhen she was thus left alone again, the little Pilgrim sat still upon the\ngrassy mound, quite tranquil and happy, without wishing to move. There\nwas such a sense of well-being in her, that she liked to sit there and\nlook about her, and breathe the delightful air, like the air of a summer\nmorning, without wishing for anything.\n\n\"How idle I am!\" she said to herself, in the very words she had often\nused before she died; but then she was idle from weakness, and now from\nhappiness. She wanted for nothing. To be alive was so sweet. There was a\ngreat deal to think about in what she had heard, but she did not even\nthink about that, only resigned herself to the delight of sitting there\nin the sweet air and being happy. Many people were coming and going, and\nthey all knew her, and smiled upon her, and those who were at a distance\nwould wave their hands. This did not surprise her at all, for though she\nwas a stranger, she too felt that she knew them all; but that they should\nbe so kind was a delight to her which words could not tell. She sat and\nmused very sweetly about all that had been told her, and wondered whether\nshe too might go sometimes, and with a kiss and a whisper clear up\nsomething that was dark in the mind of some one who loved her. \"I that\nnever was clever!\" she said to herself, with a smile. And chiefly she\nthought of a friend whom she loved, who was often in great perplexity,\nand did not know how to guide herself amid the difficulties of the world.\n\nThe little Pilgrim half laughed with delight, and then half cried with\nlonging to go, as the beautiful lady had done, and make something clear\nthat had been dark before, to this friend. As she was thinking what a\npleasure it would be, some one came up to her, crossing over the flowery\ngreenness, leaving the path on purpose. This was a being younger than the\nlady who had spoken to her before, with flowing hair all crisped with\ntouches of sunshine, and a dress all white and soft, like the feathers of\na white dove. There was something in her face different from that of the\nother, by which the little Pilgrim knew somehow, without knowing how,\nthat she had come here as a child, and grown up in this celestial place.\nShe was tall and fair, and came along with so musical a motion, as if her\nfoot scarcely touched the ground, that she might have had wings: and the\nlittle Pilgrim indeed was not sure as she watched, whether it might not\nperhaps be an angel; for she knew that there were angels among the\nblessed people who were coming and going about, but had not been able yet\nto find one out. She knew that this new-comer was coming to her, and\nturned towards her with a smile and a throb at her heart of expectation.\nBut when the heavenly maiden drew nearer, her face, though it was so\nfair, looked to the Pilgrim like another face, which she had known very\nwell,--indeed, like the homely and troubled face of the friend of whom\nshe had been thinking. And so she smiled all the more, and held out her\nhands and said, \"I am sure I know you;\" upon which the other kissed her\nand said, \"We all know each other; but I have seen you often before\nyou came here,\" and knelt down by her, among the flowers that were\ngrowing, just in front of some tall lilies that grew over her, and made\na lovely canopy over her head. There was something in her face that was\nlike a child: her mouth so soft, as if it had never spoken anything but\nheavenly words, her eyes brown and golden, as if they were filled with\nlight. She took the little Pilgrim's hands in hers, and held them and\nsmoothed them between her own. These hands had been very thin and worn\nbefore, but now, when the Pilgrim looked at them, she saw that they\nbecame softer and whiter every moment with the touch of this immortal\nyouth.\n\n\"I knew you were coming,\" said the maiden; \"when my mother has wanted me\nI have seen you there. And you were thinking of her now that was how I\nfound you.\"\n\n\"Do you know, then, what one thinks?\" said the little Pilgrim, with\nwondering eyes.\n\n\"It is in the air; and when it concerns us it comes to us like the\nbreeze. But we who are the children here, we feel it more quickly than\nyou.\"\n\n\"Are you a child?\" said the little Pilgrim, \"or are you an angel?\nSometimes you are like a child; but then your face shines, and you are\nlike--You must have some name for it here; there is nothing among the\nwords I know.\" And then she paused a little, still looking at her, and\ncried, \"Oh, if she could but see you, little Margaret! That would do her\nmost good of all.\"\n\nThen the maiden Margaret shook her lovely head. \"What does her most good\nis the will of the Father,\" she said.\n\nAt this the little Pilgrim felt once more that thrill of expectation and\nawe. \"Oh, child, you have seen him?\" she cried.\n\nAnd the other smiled. \"Have you forgotten who they are that always behold\nhis face? We have never had any fear or trembling. We are not angels, and\nthere is no other name; we are the children. There is something given to\nus beyond the others. We have had no other home.\"\n\n\"Oh, tell me, tell me!\" the little Pilgrim cried.\n\nUpon this Margaret kissed her, putting her soft cheek against hers, and\nsaid; \"It is a mystery; it cannot be put into words; in your time you\nwill know.\"\n\n\"When you touch me you change me, and I grow like you,\" the Pilgrim said.\n\"Ah, if she could see us together, you and me! And will you go to her\nsoon again? And do you see them always, what they are doing? and take\ncare of them?\"\n\n\"It is our Father who takes cares of them, and our Lord who is our\nBrother. I do his errands when I am able. Sometimes he will let me go,\nsometimes another, according as it is best. Who am I that I should take\ncare of them? I serve them when I may.\"\n\n\"But you do not forget them?\" the Pilgrim said, with wistful eyes.\n\n\"We love them always,\" said Margaret. She was more still than the lady\nwho had first spoken with the Pilgrim. Her countenance was full of a\nheavenly calm. It had never known passion nor anguish. Sometimes there\nwas in it a far-seeing look of vision, sometimes the simplicity of a\nchild. \"But what are we in comparison? For he loves them more than we do.\nWhen he keeps us from them, it is for love. We must each live our own\nlife.\"\n\n\"But it is hard for them sometimes,\" said the little Pilgrim, who could\nnot withdraw her thoughts from those she had left.\n\n\"They are never forsaken,\" said the angel maiden.\n\n\"But oh! there are worse things than sorrow,\" the little Pilgrim said;\n\"there is wrong, there is evil, Margaret. Will not he send you to step in\nbefore them, to save them from wrong?\"\n\n\"It is not for us to judge,\" said the young Margaret, with eyes full of\nheavenly wisdom; \"our Brother has it all in his hand. We do not read\ntheir hearts, like him. Sometimes you are permitted to see the battle--\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim covered her eyes with her hands. \"I could not--I could\nnot; unless I knew they were to win the day!\"\n\n\"They will win the day in the end. But sometimes, when it was being lost,\nI have seen in his face a something--I cannot tell--more love than\nbefore. Something that seemed to say, 'My child, my child, would that I\ncould do it for thee, my child!'\"\n\n\"Oh! that is what I have always felt,\" cried the Pilgrim, clasping her\nhands; her eyes were dim, her heart for a moment almost forgot its\nblessedness. \"But he could; oh, little Margaret, he could! You have\nforgotten, 'Lord; if thou wilt thou canst--'\"\n\nThe child of heaven looked at her mutely, with sweet, grave eyes, in\nwhich there was much that confused her who was a stranger here, and once\nmore softly shook her head.\n\n\"Is it that he will not then?\" said the other with a low voice of awe.\n\"Our Lord, who died--he--\"\n\n\"Listen!\" said the other; \"I hear his step on the way.\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim rose up from the mound on which she was sitting. Her\nsoul was confused with wonder and fear. She had thought that an angel\nmight step between a soul on earth and sin, and that if one but prayed\nand prayed, the dear Lord would stand between and deliver the tempted.\nShe had meant when she saw his face to ask him to save. Was not he born,\ndid not he live and die, to save? The angel maiden looked at her all the\nwhile with eyes that understood all her perplexity and her doubt, but\nspoke not. Thus it was that before the Lord came to her, the sweetness of\nher first blessedness was obscured, and she found that here too, even\nhere, though in a moment she should see him, there was need for faith.\nYoung Margaret, who had been kneeling by her, rose up too and stood among\nthe lilies, waiting, her soft countenance shining, her eyes turned\ntowards him who was coming. Upon her there was no cloud nor doubt. She\nwas one of the children of that land familiar with his presence. And\nin the air there was a sound such as those who hear it alone can\ndescribe,--a sound as of help coming and safety, like the sound of a\ndeliverer when one is in deadly danger, like the sound of a conqueror,\nlike the step of the dearest beloved coming home. As it came nearer, the\nfear melted away out of the beating heart of the Pilgrim. Who could fear\nso near him? Her breath went away from her, her heart out of her bosom to\nmeet his coming. Oh, never fear could live where he was! Her soul was all\nconfused, but it was with hope and joy. She held out her hands in that\namaze, and dropped upon her knees, not knowing what she did.\n\nHe was going about his Father's business, not lingering, yet neither\nmaking haste; and the calm and peace which the little Pilgrim had seen in\nthe faces of the blessed were but reflections from the majestic\ngentleness of the countenance to which, all quivering with happiness and\nwonder, she lifted up her eyes. Many things there had been in her mind to\nsay to him. She wanted to ask for those she loved some things which\nperhaps he had overlooked. She wanted to say, \"Send me.\" It seemed to her\nthat here was the occasion she had longed for all her life. Oh, how many\ntimes had she wished to be able to go to him, to fall at his feet, to\nshow him something which had been left undone, something which perhaps\nfor her asking he would remember to do. But when this dream of her life\nwas fulfilled, and the little Pilgrim, kneeling, and all shaken and\ntrembling with devotion and joy, was at his feet, lifting her face to\nhim, seeing him, hearing him--then she said nothing to him at all. She\nno longer wanted to say anything, or wanted anything except what he\nchose, or had power to think of anything except that all was well, and\neverything--everything as it should be in his hand. It seemed to her that\nall that she had ever hoped for was fulfilled when she met the look in\nhis eyes. At first it seemed too bright for her to meet; but next moment\nshe knew it was all that was needed to light up the world, and in it\neverything was clear. Her trembling ceased, her little frame grew\ninspired; though she still knelt, her head rose erect, drawn to him like\nthe flower to the sun. She could not tell how long it was, nor what was\nsaid, nor if it was in words. All that she knew was that she told him all\nthat ever she had thought, or wished, or intended in all her life,\nalthough she said nothing at all; and that he opened all things to her,\nand showed her that everything was well, and no one forgotten; and that\nthe things she would have told him of were more near his heart than hers,\nand those to whom she wanted to be sent were in his own hand. But whether\nthis passed with words or without words, she could not tell. Her soul\nexpanded under his eyes like a flower. It opened out, it comprehended and\nfelt and knew. She smote her hands together in her wonder that she could\nhave missed seeing what was so clear, and laughed with a sweet scorn at\nher folly, as two people who love each other laugh at the little\nmisunderstanding that has parted them. She was bold with him, though she\nwas so timid by nature, and ventured to laugh at herself, not to reproach\nherself; for his divine eyes spoke no blame, but smiled upon her folly\ntoo. And then he laid a hand upon her head, which seemed to fill her with\ncurrents of strength and joy running through all her veins. And then she\nseemed to come to herself, saying loud out, \"And that I will! and that I\nwill!\" and lo, she was kneeling on the warm, soft sod alone, and hearing\nthe sound of his footsteps as he went about his Father's business,\nfilling all the air with echoes of blessing. And all the people who were\ncoming and going smiled upon her, and she knew they were all glad for her\nthat she had seen him, and got the desire of her heart. Some of them\nwaved their hands as they passed, and some paused a moment and spoke to\nher with tender congratulations. They seemed to have the tears in their\neyes for joy, remembering every one the first time they had themselves\nseen him, and the joy of it; so that all about there sounded a concord of\nhappy thoughts all echoing to each other, \"She has seen the Lord!\"\n\nWhy did she say, \"And that I will! and that I will!\" with such fervor and\ndelight? She could not have told, but yet she knew. The first thing was\nthat she had yet to wait and believe until all things should be\naccomplished, neither doubting nor fearing, but knowing that all should\nbe well; and the second was that she must delay no longer, but rise up\nand serve the Father according to what was given her as her reward. When\nshe had recovered a little of her rapture, she rose from her knees, and\nstood still for a little, to be sure which way she was to go. And she was\nnot aware what guided her, but yet turned her face in the appointed way\nwithout any doubt. For doubt was now gone away forever, and that fear\nthat once gave her so much trouble lest she might not be doing what was\nbest. As she moved along she wondered at herself more and more. She felt\nno longer, as at first, like the child she remembered to have been,\nventuring out in the awful lovely stillness of the morning before any one\nwas awake; but she felt that to move along was a delight, and that her\nfoot scarcely touched the grass. And her whole being was instinct with\nsuch lightness of strength and life, that it did not matter to her how\nfar she went, nor what she carried, nor if the way was easy or hard. The\nway she chose was one of those which led to the great gate, and many met\nher coming from thence, with looks that were somewhat bewildered, as if\nthey did not yet know whither they were going or what had happened to\nthem,--upon whom she smiled as she passed them with soft looks of\ntenderness and sympathy, knowing what they were feeling, but did not stop\nto explain to them, because she had something else that had been given\nher to do. For this is what always follows in that country when you meet\nthe Lord, that you instantly know what it is that he would have you do.\n\nThe little Pilgrim thus went on and on toward the gate, which she had not\nseen when she herself came through it, having been lifted in his arms by\nthe great Death Angel, and set down softly inside, so that she did not\nknow it, or even the shadow of it. As she drew nearer, the light became\nless bright, though very sweet, like a lovely dawn, and she wondered to\nherself to think that she had been here but a moment ago, and yet so much\nhad passed since then. And still she was not aware what was her errand,\nbut wondered if she was to go back by these same gates, and perhaps\nreturn where she had been. She went up to them very closely, for she was\ncurious to see the place through which she had come in her sleep,--as a\ntraveller goes back to see the city gate, with its bridge and portcullis,\nthrough which he has passed by night. The gate was very great, of a\nwonderful, curious architecture, having strange, delicate arches and\ncanopies above. Some parts of them seemed cut very clean and clear; but\nthe outlines were all softened with a sort of mist and shadow, so that it\nlooked greater and higher than it was. The lower part was not one great\ndoorway, as the Pilgrim had supposed, but had innumerable doors, all\nseparate and very narrow, so that but one could pass at a time, though\nthe arch inclosed all, and seemed filled with great folding gates, in\nwhich the smaller doors were set, so that if need arose a vast opening\nmight be made for many to enter. Of the little doors many were shut as\nthe Pilgrim approached; but from moment to moment one after another would\nbe pushed softly open from without, and some one would come in. The\nlittle Pilgrim looked at it all with great interest, wondering which of\nthe doors she herself had come by; but while she stood absorbed by this,\na door was suddenly pushed open close by her, and some one flung forward\ninto the blessed country, falling upon the ground, and stretched out wild\narms as though to clutch the very soil. This sight gave the Pilgrim a\ngreat surprise; for it was the first time she had heard any sound of\npain, or seen any sight of trouble, since she entered here. In that\nmoment she knew what it was that the dear Lord had given her to do. She\nhad no need to pause to think, for her heart told her; and she did not\nhesitate, as she might have done in the other life, not knowing what to\nsay. She went forward and gathered this poor creature into her arms, as\nif it had been a child, and drew her quite within the land of peace; for\nshe had fallen across the threshold, so as to hinder any one entering who\nmight be coming after her. It was a woman, and she had flung herself upon\nher face, so that it was difficult for the little Pilgrim to see what\nmanner of person it was; for though she felt herself strong enough to\ntake up this new-comer in her arms and carry her away, yet she forbore,\nseeing the will of the stranger was not so. For some time this woman lay\nmoaning, with now and then a great sob shaking her as she lay. The little\nPilgrim had taken her by both her arms, and drawn her head to rest upon\nher own lap, and was still holding the hands, which the poor creature had\nthrown out as if to clutch the ground. Thus she lay for a little while,\nas the little Pilgrim remembered she herself had lain, not wishing to\nmove, wondering what had happened to her; then she clutched the hands\nwhich grasped her, and said, muttering,--\n\n\"You are some one new. Have you come to save me? Oh, save me! Oh, save\nme! Don't let me die!\"\n\nThis was very strange to the little Pilgrim, and went to her heart. She\nsoothed the stranger, holding her hands warm and light, and stooping over\nher.\n\n\"Dear,\" she said, \"you must try and not be afraid.\"\n\n\"You say so,\" said the woman, \"because you are well and strong. You don't\nknow what it is to be seized in the middle of your life, and told\nthat you've got to die. Oh, I have been a sinful creature! I am not fit\nto die. Can't you give me something that will cure me? What is the good\nof doctors and nurses if they cannot save a poor soul that is not fit to\ndie?\"\n\nAt this the little Pilgrim smiled upon her, always holding her fast, and\nsaid,--\n\n\"Why are you so afraid to die?\"\n\nThe woman raised her head to see who it was who put such a strange\nquestion to her.\n\n\"You are some one new,\" she said. \"I have never seen you before. Is there\nany one that is not afraid to die? Would _you_ like to have to give\nyour account all in a moment, without any time to prepare?\"\n\n\"But you have had time to prepare,\" said the Pilgrim.\n\n\"Oh, only a very, very little time. And I never thought it was true. I am\nnot an old woman, and I am not fit to die; and I'm poor. Oh, if I were\nrich, I would bribe you to give me something to keep me alive. Won't you\ndo it for pity?--won't you do it for pity? When you are as bad as I am,\noh, you will perhaps call for some one to help you, and find nobody, like\nme.\"\n\n\"I will help you for love,\" said the little Pilgrim; \"some one who loves\nyou has sent me.\"\n\nThe woman lifted herself up a little and shook her head. \"There is nobody\nthat loves me.\" Then she cast her eyes round her and began to tremble\nagain (for the touch of the little Pilgrim had stilled her). \"Oh, where\nam I?\" she said. \"They have taken me away; they have brought me to a\nstrange place; and you are new. Oh, where have they taken me?--where am\nI?--where am I?\" she cried. \"Have they brought me here to die?\"\n\nThen the little Pilgrim bent over her and soothed her. \"You must not be\nso much afraid of dying; that is all over. You need not fear that any\nmore,\" she said softly; \"for here where you now are we have all died.\"\n\nThe woman started up out of her arms, and then she gave a great shriek\nthat made the air ring, and cried out, \"Dead! am I dead?\" with a shudder\nand convulsion, throwing herself again wildly with outstretched hands\nupon the ground.\n\nThis was a great and terrible work for the little Pilgrim--the first she\nhad ever had to do--and her heart failed her for a moment; but afterward\nshe remembered our Brother who sent her, and knew what was best. She drew\ncloser to the new-comer, and took her hand again.\n\n\"Try,\" she said, in a soft voice, \"and think a little. Do you feel now so\nill as you were? Do not be frightened, but think a little. I will hold\nyour hand. And look at me; you are not afraid of me?\"\n\nThe poor creature shuddered again, and then she turned her face and\nlooked doubtfully, with great dark eyes dilated, and the brow and cheek\nso curved and puckered round them that they seemed to glow out of deep\ncaverns. Her face was full of anguish and fear. But as she looked at the\nlittle Pilgrim, her troubled gaze softened. Of her own accord she clasped\nher other hand upon the one that held hers, and then she said with a\ngasp,--\n\n\"I am not afraid of you; that was not true that you said! You are one of\nthe sisters, and you want to frighten me and make me repent!\"\n\n\"You do repent,\" the Pilgrim said.\n\n\"Oh,\" cried the poor woman, \"what has the like of you to do with me? Now\nI look at you, I never saw any one that was like you before. Don't you\nhate me?--don't you loathe me? I do myself. It's so ugly to go wrong. I\nthink now I would almost rather die and be done with it. You will say\nthat is because I am going to get better. I feel a great deal better now.\nDo you think I am going to get over it? Oh, I am better! I could get up\nout of bed and walk about. Yes, but I am not in bed,--where have you\nbrought me? Never mind, it is a fine air; I shall soon get well here.\"\n\nThe Pilgrim was silent for a little, holding her hands. And then she\nsaid,--\n\n\"Tell me how you feel now,\" in her soft voice.\n\nThe woman had sat up and was gazing round her. \"It is very strange,\" she\nsaid; \"it is all confused. I think upon my mother and the old prayers I\nused to say. For a long, long time I always said my prayers; but now I've\ngot hardened, they say. Oh, I was once as fresh as any one. It all comes\nover me now. I feel as if I were young again--just come out of the\ncountry. I am sure that I could walk.\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim raised her up, holding her by her hands; and she stood\nand gazed round about her, making one or two doubtful steps. She was very\npale, and the light was dim; her eyes peered into it with a scared yet\neager look. She made another step, then stopped again.\n\n\"I am quite well,\" she said. \"I could walk a mile. I could walk any\ndistance. What was that you said? Oh, I tell you I am better! I am not\ngoing to die.\"\n\n\"You will never, never die,\" said the little Pilgrim; \"are you not glad\nit is all over? Oh, I was so glad! And all the more you should be glad if\nyou were so much afraid.\"\n\nBut this woman was not glad. She shrank away from her companion, then\ncame close to her again, and gripped her with her hands.\n\n\"It is your--fun,\" she said, \"or just to frighten me. Perhaps you think\nit will do me no harm as I am getting so well; you want to frighten me to\nmake me good. But I mean to be good without that--I do!--I do! When one\nis so near dying as I have been and yet gets better,--for I am going to\nget better! Yes! you know it as well as I.\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim made no reply, but stood by, looking at her charge,\nnot feeling that anything was given her to say,--and she was so new to\nthis work, that there was a little trembling in her, lest she should not\ndo everything as she ought. And the woman looked round with those anxious\neyes gazing all about. The light did not brighten as it had done when the\nPilgrim herself first came to this place. For one thing, they had\nremained quite close to the gate, which no doubt threw a shadow. The\nwoman looked at that, and then turned and looked into the dim morning,\nand did not know where she was, and her heart was confused and troubled.\n\n\"Where are we?\" she said. \"I do not know where it is; they must have\nbrought me here in my sleep,--where are we? How strange to bring a sick\nwoman away out of her room in her sleep! I suppose it was the new\ndoctor,\" she went on, looking very closely in the little Pilgrim's face;\nthen paused, and drawing a long breath, said softly, \"It has done me\ngood. It is better air--it is--a new kind of cure!\"\n\nBut though she spoke like this, she did not convince herself; her eyes\nwere wild with wondering and fear. She gripped the Pilgrim's arm more and\nmore closely, and trembled, leaning upon her.\n\n\"Why don't you speak to me?\" she said; \"why don't you tell me? Oh, I\ndon't know how to live in this place! What do you do?--how do you speak?\nI am not fit for it. And what are you? I never saw you before, nor any\none like you. What do you want with me? Why are you so kind to me?\nWhy--why--\"\n\nAnd here she went off into a murmur of questions. Why? why? always\nholding fast by the little Pilgrim, always gazing round her, groping as\nit were in the dimness with her great eyes.\n\n\"I have come because our dear Lord who is our Brother sent me to meet\nyou, and because I love you,\" the little Pilgrim said.\n\n\"Love me!\" the woman cried, throwing up her hands. \"But no one loves me;\nI have not deserved it.\" Here she grasped her close again with a sudden\nclutch, and cried out, \"If this is what you say, where is God?\"\n\n\"Are you afraid of him?\" the little Pilgrim said. Upon which the woman\ntrembled so, that the Pilgrim trembled too with the quivering of her\nframe; then loosed her hold, and fell upon her face, and cried,--\n\n\"Hide me! hide me! I have been a great sinner. Hide me, that he may not\nsee me;\" and with one hand she tried to draw the Pilgrim's dress as a\nveil between her and something she feared.\n\n\"How should I hide you from him who is everywhere? and why should I hide\nyou from your Father?\" the little Pilgrim said. This she said almost with\nindignation, wondering that any one could put more trust in her, who was\nno better than a child, than in the Father of all. But then she said,\n\"Look into your heart, and you will see you are not so much afraid as you\nthink. This is how you have been accustomed to frighten yourself. But now\nlook into your heart. You thought you were very ill at first, but not now\nand you think you are afraid; but look into your heart--\"\n\nThere was a silence; and then the woman raised her head with a wonderful\nlook, in which there was amazement and doubt, as if she had heard some\njoyful thing, but dared not yet believe that it was true. Once more she\nhid her face in her hands, and once more raised it again. Her eyes\nsoftened; a long sigh or gasp, like one taking breath after drowning,\nshook her breast. Then she said, \"I think--that is true. But if I am not\nafraid, it is because I am--bad. It is because I am hardened. Oh, should\nnot I fear him who can send me away into--the lake that burns--into the\npit--\" And here she gave a great cry, but held the little Pilgrim all the\nwhile with her eyes, which seemed to plead and ask for better news.\n\nThen there came into the Pilgrim's heart what to say, and she took the\nwoman's hand again and held it between her own. \"That is the change,\" she\nsaid, \"that comes when we come here. We are not afraid any more of our\nFather. We are not all happy. Perhaps you will not be happy at first. But\nif he says to you, 'Go!'--even to that place you speak of--you will know\nthat it is well, and you will not be afraid. You are not afraid now,--oh,\nI can see it in your eyes. You are not happy, but you are not afraid. You\nknow it is the Father. Do not say God,--that is far off,--Father!\" said\nthe little Pilgrim, holding up the woman's hand clasped in her own. And\nthere came into her soul an ecstasy, and tears that were tears of\nblessedness fell from her eyes, and all about her there seemed to shine a\nlight. When she came to herself, the woman who was her charge had come\nquite close to her, and had added her other hand to that the Pilgrim\nheld, and was weeping and saying, \"I am not afraid,\" with now and then a\ngasp and sob, like a child who after a passion of tears has been\nconsoled, yet goes on sobbing and cannot quite forget, and is afraid to\nown that all is well again. Then the Pilgrim kissed her, and bade her\nrest a little; for even she herself felt shaken, and longed for a little\nquiet, and to feel the true sense of the peace that was in her heart. She\nsat down beside her upon the ground, and made her lean her head against\nher shoulder, and thus they remained very still for a little time, saying\nno more. It seemed to the little Pilgrim that her companion had fallen\nasleep, and perhaps it was so, after so much agitation. All this time\nthere had been people passing, entering by the many doors. And most of\nthem paused a little to see where they were, and looked round them, then\nwent on; and it seemed to the little Pilgrim that according to the doors\nby which they entered each took a different way. While she watched,\nanother came in by the same door as that at which the woman who was her\ncharge had come in. And he too stumbled and looked about him with an air\nof great wonder and doubt. When he saw her seated on the ground, he came\nup to her hesitating, as one in a strange place who does not want to\nbetray that he is bewildered and has lost his way. He came with a little\npretence of smiling, though his countenance was pale and scared, and\nsaid, drawing his breath quick, \"I ought to know where I am, but I have\nlost my head, I think. Will you tell me which is--the way?\"\n\n\"What way?\" cried the little Pilgrim; for her strength was gone from her,\nand she had no word to say to him. He looked at her with that\nbewilderment on his face, and said, \"I find myself strange, strange. I\nought to know where I am; but it is scarcely daylight yet. It is perhaps\nfoolish to come out so early in the morning.\" This he said in his\nconfusion, not knowing where he was, nor what he said.\n\n\"I think all the ways lead to our Father,\" said the little Pilgrim\n(though she had not known this till now). \"And the dear Lord walks about\nthem all. Here you never go astray.\"\n\nUpon this the stranger looked at her, and asked in a faltering voice,\n\"Are you an angel?\" still not knowing what he said.\n\n\"Oh, no, no; I am only a Pilgrim,\" she replied.\n\n\"May I sit by you a little?\" said the man. He sat down, drawing long\nbreaths, as though he had gone through great fatigue; and looked about\nwith wondering eyes. \"You will wonder, but I do not know where I am,\" he\nsaid. \"I feel as if I must he dreaming. This is not where I expected to\ncome. I looked for something very different; do you think there can have\nbeen any--mistake?\"\n\n\"Oh, never that,\" she said; \"there are no mistakes here.\"\n\nThen he looked at her again, and said,--\n\n\"I perceive that you belong to this country, though you say you are a\npilgrim. I should be grateful if you would tell me. Does one live--here?\nAnd is this all? Is there no--no--but I don't know what word to use. All\nis so strange, different from what I expected.\"\n\n\"Do you know that you have died?\"\n\n\"Yes--yes, I am quite acquainted with that,\" he said, hurriedly; as if it\nhad been an idea he disliked to dwell upon. \"But then I expected--Is\nthere no one to tell you where to go, or what you are to be? or to take\nany notice of you?\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim was startled by this tone. She did not understand its\nmeaning, and she had not any word to say to him. She looked at him with\nas much bewilderment as he had shown when he approached her, and replied,\nfaltering,--\n\n\"There are a great many people here; but I have never heard if there is\nany one to tell you--\"\n\n\"What does it matter how many people there are if you know none of them?\"\nhe said.\n\n\"We all know each other,\" she answered him but then paused and hesitated\na little, because this was what had been said to her, and of herself she\nwas not assured of it, neither did she know at all how to deal with this\nstranger, to whom she had not any commission. It seemed that he had no\none to care for him, and the little Pilgrim had a sense of compassion,\nyet of trouble in her heart; for what could she say? And it was very\nstrange to her to see one who was not content here.\n\n\"Ah, but there should be some one to point out the way, and tell us which\nis our circle, and where we ought to go,\" he said. And then he too was\nsilent for a while, looking about him as all were fain to do on their\nfirst arrival, finding everything so strange. There were people coming in\nat every moment, and some were met at the very threshold, and some went\naway alone with peaceful faces, and there were many groups about talking\ntogether in soft voices; but no one interrupted the other, and though so\nmany were there, each voice was as clear as if it had spoken alone, and\nthere was no tumult of sound as when many people assemble together in the\nlower world.\n\nThe little Pilgrim wondered to find herself with the woman resting upon\nher on one side, and the man seated silent on the other, neither having,\nit appeared, any guide but only herself, who knew so little. How was she\nto lead them in the paths which she did not know?--and she was exhausted\nby the agitation of her struggle with the woman whom she felt to be her\ncharge. But in this moment of silence she had time to remember the face\nof the Lord, when he gave her this commission, and her heart was\nstrengthened. The man all this time sat and watched, looking eagerly all\nabout him, examining the faces of those who went and came: and sometimes\nhe made a little start as if to go and speak to some one he knew; but\nalways drew back again and looked at the little Pilgrim, as if he had\nsaid, \"This is the one who will serve me best.\" He spoke to her again\nafter a while and said, \"I suppose you are one of the guides that show\nthe way.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the little Pilgrim, anxiously. \"I know so little! It is not\nlong since I came here. I came in the early morning--\"\n\n\"Why, it is morning now. You could not come earlier than it is now. You\nmean yesterday.\"\n\n\"I think,\" said the Pilgrim, \"that yesterday is the other side; there is\nno yesterday here.\"\n\nHe looked at her with the keen look he had, to understand her the better;\nand then he said,--\n\n\"No division of time! I think that must be monotonous. It will be strange\nto have no night; but I suppose one gets used to everything. I hope\nthough there is something to do. I have always lived a very busy life.\nPerhaps this is just a little pause before we go--to be--to have--to\nget our--appointed place.\"\n\nHe had an uneasy look as he said this, and looked at her with an anxious\ncuriosity, which the little Pilgrim did not understand.\n\n\"I do not know,\" she said softly, shaking her head. \"I have so little\nexperience. I have not been told of an appointed place.\"\n\nThe man looked at her very strangely.\n\n\"I did not think,\" he said, \"that I should have found such ignorance\nhere. Is it not well known that we must all appear before the\njudgment-seat of God?\"\n\nThere words seemed to cause a trembling on the still air, and the woman\non the other side raised herself suddenly up, clasping her hands and some\nof those who had just entered heard the words, and came and crowded about\nthe little Pilgrim, some standing, some falling down upon their knee, all\nwith their faces turned towards her. She who had always been so simple\nand small, so little used to teach; she was frightened with the sight of\nall these strangers crowding, hanging upon her lips, looking to her for\nknowledge. She knew not what to do or what to say. The tears came into\nher eyes.\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, \"I do not know anything about a judgment-seat. I know\nthat our Father is here, and that when we are in trouble we are taken to\nhim to be comforted, and that our dear Lord our Brother is among us every\nday, and every one may see him. Listen,\" she said, standing up suddenly\namong them, feeling strong as an angel. \"I have seen him! though I am\nnothing, so little as you see, and often silly, never clever as some of\nyou are, I have seen him! and so will all of you. There is no more that I\nknow of,\" she said softly, clasping her hands. \"When you see him it comes\ninto your heart what you must do.\"\n\nAnd then there was a murmur of voices about her, some saying that was\nbest, and some wondering if that were all, and some crying if he would\nbut come now--while the little Pilgrim stood among them with her face\nshining, and they all looked at her, asking her to tell them more, to\nshow them how to find him. But this was far above what she could do, for\nshe too was not much more than a stranger, and had little strength. She\nwould not go back a step, nor desert those who were so anxious to know,\nthough her heart fluttered almost as it had used to do before she died,\nwhat with her longing to tell them, and knowing that she had no more to\nsay.\n\nBut in that land it is never permitted that one who stands bravely and\nfails not shall be left without succor; for it is no longer needful there\nto stand even to death, since all dying is over, and all souls are\ntested. When it was seen that the little Pilgrim was thus surrounded by\nso many that questioned her, there suddenly came about her many others\nfrom the brightness out of which she had come, who, one going to one\nhand, and one to another, safely led them into the ways in which their\ncourse lay: so that the Pilgrim was free to lead forth the woman who had\nbeen given her in charge, and whose path lay in a dim, but pleasant\ncountry, outside of that light and gladness in which the Pilgrim's home\nwas.\n\n\"But,\" she said, \"you are not to fear or be cast down, because he goes\nlikewise by these ways, and there is not a corner in all this land but he\nis to be seen passing by; and he will come and speak to you, and lay his\nhand upon you; and afterwards everything will be clear, and you will know\nwhat you are to do.\"\n\n\"Stay with me till he comes,--oh, stay with me,\" the woman cried,\nclinging to her arm.\n\n\"Unless another is sent,\" the little Pilgrim said. And it was nothing to\nher that the air was less bright there, for her mind was full of light,\nso that, though her heart still fluttered a little with all that had\npassed, she had no longing to return, nor to shorten the way, but went by\nthe lower road sweetly, with the stranger hanging upon her, who was\nstronger and taller than she. Thus they went on, and the Pilgrim told her\nall she knew, and everything that came into her heart. And so full was\nshe of the great things she had to say, that it was a surprise to her,\nand left her trembling, when suddenly the woman took away her clinging\nhand, and flew forward with arms out-spread and a cry of joy. The little\nPilgrim stood still to see, and on the path before them was a child,\ncoming towards them singing, with a look such as is never seen but upon\nthe faces of children who have come here early, and who behold the face\nof the Father, and have never known fear nor sorrow. The woman flew and\nfell at the child's feet, and he put his hand upon her, and raised her\nup, and called her \"mother.\" Then he smiled upon the little Pilgrim, and\nled her away.\n\n\"Now she needs me no longer,\" said the Pilgrim; and it was a surprise to\nher, and for a moment she wondered in herself if it was known that this\nchild should come so suddenly and her work be over; and also how she was\nto return again to the sweet place among the flowers from which she had\ncome. But when she turned to look if there was any way, she found one\nstanding by such as she had not yet seen. This was a youth, with a face\njust touched with manhood, as at the moment when the boy ends, when all\nis still fresh and pure in the heart; but he was taller and greater than\na man.\n\n\"I am sent,\" he said, \"little sister, to take you to the Father; because\nyou have been very faithful, and gone beyond your strength.\"\n\nAnd he took the little Pilgrim by the hand, and she knew he was an angel;\nand immediately the sweet air melted about them into light, and a hush\ncame upon her of all thought and all sense, attending till she should\nreceive the blessing, and her new name, and see what is beyond telling,\nand hear and understand.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nTHE LITTLE PILGRIM GOES UP HIGHER.\n\n\nWhen the little Pilgrim came out of the presence of the Father, she found\nherself in the street of a great city. But what she saw and heard when\nshe was with Him it is not given to the tongue of mortal to say, for it\nis beyond words, and beyond even thought. As the mystery of love is not\nto be spoken but to be felt, even in the lower earth, so, but much less,\nis that great mystery of the love of the Father to be expressed in sound.\nThe little Pilgrim was very happy when she went into that sacred place,\nbut there was a great awe upon her, and it might even be said that she\nwas afraid; but when she came out again she feared nothing, but looked\nwith clear eyes upon all she saw, loving them, but no more overawed by\nthem, having seen that which is above all. When she came forth again to\nher common life--for it is not permitted save for those who have attained\nthe greatest heights to dwell there--she had no longer need of any guide,\nbut came alone, knowing where to go, and walking where it pleased her,\nwith reverence and a great delight in seeing and knowing all that was\naround, but no fear. It was a great city, but it was not like the great\ncities which she had seen. She understood as she passed along how it was\nthat those who had been dazzled but by a passing glance had described the\nwalls and the pavement as gold. They were like what gold is, beautiful\nand clear, of a lovely color, but softer in tone than metal ever was, and\nas cool and fresh to walk upon and to touch as if they had been velvet\ngrass. The buildings were all beautiful, of every style and form that it\nis possible to think of, yet in great harmony, as if every man had\nfollowed his own taste, yet all had been so combined and grouped by the\nmaster architect that each individual feature enhanced the effect of the\nrest. Some of the houses were greater and some smaller, but all of them\nwere rich in carvings and pictures and lovely decorations, and the effect\nwas as if the richest materials had been employed, marbles and beautiful\nsculptured stone, and wood of beautiful tints, though the little Pilgrim\nknew that these were not like the marble and stone she had once known,\nbut heavenly representatives of them, far better than they. There were\npeople at work upon them, building new houses and making additions, and a\ngreat many painters painting upon them the history of the people who\nlived there, or of others who were worthy that commemoration. And the\nstreets were full of pleasant sound, and of crowds going and coming, and\nthe commotion of much business, and many things to do. And this movement,\nand the brightness of the air, and the wonderful things that were to be\nseen on every side, made the Pilgrim gay, so that she could have sung\nwith pleasure as she went along. And all who met her smiled, and every\ngroup exchanged greetings as they passed along, all knowing each other.\nMany of them, as might be seen, had come there, as she did, to see the\nwonders of the beautiful city; and all who lived there were ready to tell\nthem whatever they desired to know, and show them the finest houses and\nthe greatest pictures. And this gave a feeling of holiday and pleasure\nwhich was delightful beyond description, for all the busy people about\nwere full of sympathy with the strangers, bidding them welcome, inviting\nthem into their houses, making the warmest fellowship. And friends were\nmeeting continually on every side; but the Pilgrim had no sense that she\nwas forlorn in being alone, for all were friends; and it pleased her to\nwatch the others, and see how one turned this way and one another, every\none finding something that delighted him above all other things. She\nherself took a great pleasure in watching a painter, who was standing\nupon a balcony a little way above her, painting upon a great fresco: and\nwhen he saw this he asked her to come up beside him and see his work. She\nasked him a great many questions about it, and why it was that he was\nworking only at the draperies of the figures, and did not touch their\nfaces, some of which were already finished and seemed to be looking at\nher, as living as she was, out of the wall, while some were merely\noutlined as yet. He told her that he was not a great painter to do this,\nor to design the great work, but that the master would come presently,\nwho had the chief responsibility. \"For we have not all the same genius,\"\nhe said, \"and if I were to paint this head it would not have the gift of\nlife as that one has; but to stand by and see him put it in, you cannot\nthink what a happiness that is; for one knows every touch, and just what\neffect it will have, though one could not do it one's self; and it is a\nwonder and a delight perpetual that it should be done.\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim looked up at him and said, \"That is very beautiful to\nsay. And do you never wish to be like him--to make the lovely, living\nfaces as well as the other parts?\"\n\n\"Is not this lovely too?\" he said; and showed her how he had just put in\na billowy robe, buoyed out with the wind, and sweeping down from the\nshoulders of a stately figure in such free and graceful folds that she\nwould have liked to take it in her hand and feel the silken texture; and\nthen he told her how absorbing it was to study the mysteries of color and\nthe differences of light. \"There is enough in that to make one happy,\"\nhe said. \"It is thought by some that we will all come to the higher point\nwith work and thought: but that is not my feeling; and whether it is so\nor not what does it matter, for our Father makes no difference: and all\nof us are necessary to everything that is done: and it is almost more\ndelight to see the master do it than to do it with one's own hand. For\none thing, your own work may rejoice you in your heart, but always\nwith a little trembling because it is never so perfect as you would have\nit--whereas in your master's work you have full content, because his idea\ngoes beyond yours, and as he makes every touch you can feel 'That is\nright--that is complete--that is just as it ought to be.' Do you\nunderstand what I mean?\" he said, turning to her with a smile.\n\n\"I understand it perfectly,\" she cried, clasping her hands together with\nthe delight of accord. \"Don't you think that is one of the things that\nare so happy here? you understand at half a word.\"\n\n\"Not everybody,\" he said, and smiled upon her like a brother; \"for we are\nnot all alike even here.\"\n\n\"Were you a painter?\" she said, \"in--in the other--\"\n\n\"In the old times. I was one of those that strove for the mastery, and\nsometimes grudged--We remember these things at times,\" he said gravely,\n\"to make us more aware of the blessedness of being content.\"\n\n\"It is long since then?\" she said with some wistfulness; upon which he\nsmiled again.\n\n\"So long,\" he said, \"that we have worn out most of our links to the world\nbelow. We have all come away, and those who were after us for\ngenerations. But you are a new-comer.\"\n\n\"And are they all with you? are you all--together? do you live--as in the\nold time?\"\n\nUpon this the painter smiled, but not so brightly as before.\n\n\"Not as in the old time,\" he said, \"nor are they all here. Some are still\nupon the way, and of some we have no certainty, only news from time to\ntime. The angels are very good to us. They never miss an occasion to\nbring us news; for they go everywhere, you know.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the little Pilgrim, though indeed she had not known it till\nnow; but it seemed to her as if it had come to her mind by nature and she\nhad never needed to be told.\n\n\"They are so tender-hearted,\" the painter said; \"and more than that, they\nare very curious about men and women. They have known it all from the\nbeginning, and it is a wonder to them. There is a friend of mine, an\nangel, who is more wise in men's hearts than any one I know; and yet he\nwill say to me sometimes, 'I do not understand you,--you are wonderful.'\nThey like to find out all we are thinking. It is an endless pleasure to\nthem, just as it is to some of us to watch the people in the other\nworlds.\"\n\n\"Do you mean--where we have come from?\" said the little Pilgrim.\n\n\"Not always there. We in this city have been long separated from that\ncountry, for all that we love are out of it.\"\n\n\"But not here?\" the little Pilgrim cried again, with a little sorrow--a\npang that she knew was going to be put away--in her heart.\n\n\"But coming! coming!\" said the painter, cheerfully; \"and some were here\nbefore us, and some have arrived since. They are everywhere.\"\n\n\"But some in trouble--some in trouble!\" she cried, with the tears in her\neyes.\n\n\"We suppose so,\" he said, gravely; \"for some are in that place which once\nwas called among us the place of despair.\"\n\n\"You mean--\" and though the little Pilgrim had been made free of fear, at\nthat word which she would not speak, she trembled, and the light grew dim\nin her eyes.\n\n\"Well!\" said her new friend, \"and what then? The Father sees through and\nthrough it as he does here; they cannot escape him: so that there is Love\nnear them always. I have a son,\" he said, then sighed a little, but\nsmiled again, \"who is there.\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim at this clasped her hands with a piteous cry.\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" he said, \"little sister; my friend I was telling you of, the\nangel, brought me news of him just now. Indeed there was news of him\nthrough all the city. Did you not hear all the bells ringing? But perhaps\nthat was before you came. The angels who know me best came one\nafter another to tell me, and our Lord himself came to wish me joy. My\nson had found the way.\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim did not understand this, and almost thought that the\npainter must be mistaken or dreaming. She looked at him very anxiously\nand said,--\n\n\"I thought that those unhappy--never came out any more.\"\n\nThe painter smiled at her in return, and said,--\n\n\"Had you children in the old time?\"\n\nShe paused a little before she replied.\n\n\"I had children in love,\" she said, \"but none that were born mine.\"\n\n\"It is the same,\" he said, \"it is the same; and if one of them had sinned\nagainst you, injured you, done wrong in any way, would you have cast him\noff, or what would you have done?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said the little Pilgrim again, with a vivid light of memory coming\ninto her face, which showed she had no need to think of this as a thing\nthat might have happened, but knew. \"I brought him home. I nursed him\nwell again. I prayed for him night and day. Did you say cast him off?\nwhen he had most need of me? then I never could have loved him,\" she\ncried.\n\nThe painter nodded his head, and his hand with the pencil in it, for he\nhad turned from his picture to look at her.\n\n\"Then you think you love better than our Father?\" he said; and turned to\nhis work, and painted a new fold in the robe, which looked as if a soft\nair had suddenly blown into it, and not the touch of a skilful hand.\n\nThis made the Pilgrim tremble, as though in her ignorance she had done\nsomething wrong. After that there came a great joy into her heart. \"Oh,\nhow happy you have made me!\" she cried. \"I am glad with all my heart for\nyou and your son--\" Then she paused a little and added, \"But you said he\nwas still there.\"\n\n\"It is true; for the land of darkness is very confusing, they tell me,\nfor want of the true light, and our dear friends the angels are not\npermitted to help: but if one follows them, that shows the way. You may\nbe in that land yet on your way hither. It was very hard to understand at\nfirst,\" said the painter; \"there are some sketches I could show you. No\none has ever made a picture of it, though many have tried; but I could\nshow you some sketches--if you wish to see.\"\n\nTo this the little Pilgrim's look was so plain an answer that the painter\nlaid down his pallet and his brush, and left his work, to show them to\nher as he had promised. They went down from the balcony and along the\nstreet until they came to one of the great palaces, where many were\ncoming and going. Here they walked through some vast halls, where\nstudents were working at easels, doing every kind of beautiful work: some\npainting pictures, some preparing drawings, planning houses and palaces.\nThe Pilgrim would have liked to pause at every moment to see one lovely\nthing or another; but the painter walked on steadily till he came to a\nroom which was full of sketches, some of them like pictures in little,\nwith many figures,--some of them only a representation of a flower, or\nthe wing of a bird. \"These are all the master's,\" he said; \"sometimes the\nsight of them will be enough to put something great into the mind of\nanother. In this corner are the sketches I told you of.\" There were two\nof them hanging together upon the wall, and at first it seemed to the\nlittle Pilgrim as if they represented the flames and fire of which she\nhad read, and this made her shudder for the moment. But then she saw that\nit was a red light like a stormy sunset, with masses of clouds in the\nsky, and a low sun very fiery and dazzling, which no doubt to a hasty\nglance must have looked, with its dark shadows and high lurid lights,\nlike the fires of the bottomless pit. But when you looked down you saw\nthe reality what it was. The country that lay beneath was full of\ntropical foliage, but with many stretches of sand and dry plains, and in\nthe foreground was a town, that looked very prosperous and crowded,\nthough the figures were very minute, the subject being so great; but no\none to see it would have taken it for anything but a busy and wealthy\nplace, in a thunderous atmosphere, with a storm coming on. In the next\nthere was a section of a street with a great banqueting hall open to the\nview, and many people sitting about the table. You could see that there\nwas a great deal of laughter and conversation going on, some very noisy\ngroups, but others that sat more quietly in corners and conversed, and\nsome who sang, and every kind of entertainment. The little Pilgrim was\nvery much astonished to see this, and turned to the painter, who answered\nher directly, though she had not spoken. \"We used to think differently\nonce. There are some who are there and do not know it. They think only it\nis the old life over again, but always worse, and they are led on in the\nways of evil; but they do not feel the punishment until they begin to\nfind out where they are and to struggle, and wish for other things.\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim felt her heart beat very wildly while she looked at\nthis, and she thought upon the rich man in the parable, who, though he\nwas himself in torment, prayed that his brother might be saved, and she\nsaid to herself, \"Our dear Lord would never leave him there who could\nthink of his brother when he was himself in such a strait.\" And when she\nlooked at the painter he smiled upon her, and nodded his head. Then he\nled her to the other corner of the room where there were other pictures.\nOne of them was of a party seated round a table and an angel looking\non. The angel had the aspect of a traveller, as if he were passing\nquickly by and had but paused a moment to look, and one of the men\nglancing up suddenly saw him. The picture was dim, but the startled look\nupon this man's face, and the sorrow on the angel's, appeared out of the\nmisty background with such truth that the tears came into the little\nPilgrim's eyes, and she said in her heart, \"Oh that I could go to him and\nhelp him!\" The other sketches were dimmer and dimmer. You seemed to see\nout of the darkness, gleaming lights, and companies of revellers, out of\nwhich here and there was one trying to escape. And then the wide plains\nin the night, and the white vision of the angel in the distance, and here\nand there by different paths a fugitive striving to follow. \"Oh, sir,\"\nsaid the little Pilgrim, \"how did you learn to do it? You have never been\nthere.\"\n\n\"It was the master, not I; and I cannot tell you if he has ever been\nthere. When the Father has given you that gift, you can go to many\nplaces, without leaving the one where you are. And then he has heard what\nthe angels say.\"\n\n\"And will they all get safe at the last? and even that great spirit, he\nthat fell from heaven--\"\n\nThe painter shook his head and said, \"It is not permitted to you and me\nto know such great things. Perhaps the wise will tell you if you ask\nthem: but for me I ask the Father in my heart and listen to what he\nsays.\"\n\n\"That is best!\" the little Pilgrim said; and she asked the Father in her\nheart: and there came all over her such a glow of warmth and happiness\nthat her soul was satisfied. She looked in the painter's face and laughed\nfor joy. And he put out his hands as if welcoming some one, and his\ncountenance shone; and he said,--\n\n\"My son had a great gift. He was a master born, though it was not given\nto me. He shall paint it all for us so that the heart shall rejoice; and\nyou will come again and see.\"\n\nAfter that it happened to the little Pilgrim to enter into another great\npalace where there were many people reading, and some sitting at their\ndesks and writing, and some consulting together, with many great volumes\nstretched out open upon the tables. One of these who was seated alone\nlooked up as she paused wondering at him, and smiled as every one did,\nand greeted her with such a friendly tone that the Pilgrim, who always\nhad a great desire to know, came nearer to him and looked at the book,\nthen begged his pardon, and said she did not know that books were needed\nhere. And then he told her that he was one of the historians of the city\nwhere all the records of the world were kept, and that it was his\nbusiness to work upon the great history, and to show what was the meaning\nof the Father in everything that had happened, and how each event came in\nits right place.\n\n\"And do you get it out of books?\" she asked; for she was not learned, nor\nwise, and knew but little, though she always loved to know.\n\n\"The books are the records,\" he said; \"and there are many here that were\nnever known to us in the old days; for the angels love to look into\nthese things, and they can tell us much, for they saw it; and in the\ngreat books they have kept there is much put down that was never in the\nbooks we wrote, for then we did not know. We found out about the kings\nand the state, and tried to understand what great purposes they were\nserving; but even these we did not know, for those purposes were too\ngreat for us, not knowing the end from the beginning, and the hearts of\nmen were too great for us. We comprehended the evil sometimes, but never\nfathomed the good. And how could we know the lesser things which were\nworking out God's way? for some of these even the angels did not know;\nand it has happened to me that our Lord himself has come in sometimes to\ntell me of one that none of us had discovered.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said the little Pilgrim, with tears in her eyes, \"I should like to\nhave been that one!--that was not known even to the angels, but only\nto Himself!\"\n\nThe historian smiled. \"It was my brother,\" he said.\n\nThe Pilgrim looked at him with great wonder. \"Your brother, and you did\nnot know him!\"\n\nAnd then he turned over the pages and showed her where the story was.\n\n\"You know,\" he said, \"that we who live here are not of your time, but\nhave lived and lived here till the old life is far away and like a dream.\nThere were great tumults and fightings in our time, and it was settled by\nthe prince of the place that our town was to be abandoned, and all the\npeople left to the mercy of an enemy who had no mercy. But every day as\nhe rode out he saw at one door a child, a little fair boy, who sat on the\nsteps, and sang his little song like a bird. This child was never afraid\nof anything,--when the horses pranced past him, and the troopers pushed\nhim aside, he looked up into their faces and smiled. And when he had\nanything, a piece of bread, or an apple, or a plaything, he shared it\nwith his playmates; and his little face, and his pretty voice, and all\nhis pleasant ways, made that corner bright. He was like a flower growing\nthere; everybody smiled that saw him.\"\n\n\"I have seen such a child,\" the little Pilgrim said.\n\n\"But we made no account of him,\" said the historian. \"The Lord of the\nplace came past him every day, and always saw him singing in the sun by\nhis father's door. And it was a wonder then, and it has been a wonder\never since, why, having resolved upon it, that prince did not abandon the\ntown, which would have changed all his fortune after. Much had been made\nclear to me since I began to study, but not this: till the Lord himself\ncame to me and told me. The prince looked at the child till he loved him,\nand he reflected how many children there were like this that would be\nmurdered, or starved to death, and he could not give up the little\nsinging boy to the sword. So he remained; and the town was saved, and he\nbecame a great king. It was so secret that even the angels did not know\nit. But without that child the history would not have been complete.\"\n\n\"And is he here?\" the little Pilgrim said.\n\n\"Ah,\" said the historian, \"that is more strange still; for that which\nsaved him was also to his harm. He is not here. He is Elsewhere.\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim's face grew sad; but then she remembered what she had\nbeen told.\n\n\"But you know,\" she said, \"that he is coming?\"\n\n\"I know that our Father will never forsake him, and that everything that\nis being accomplished in him is well.\"\n\n\"Is it well to suffer? Is it well to live in that dark stormy country?\nOh, that they were all here, and happy like you!\"\n\nHe shook his head a little and said,--\n\n\"It was a long time before I got here; and as for suffering that matters\nlittle. You get experience by it. You are more accomplished and fit for\ngreater work in the end. It is not for nothing that we are permitted to\nwander; and sometimes one goes to the edge of despair--\"\n\nShe looked at him with such wondering eyes that he answered her without a\nword.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"I have been there.\"\n\nAnd then it seemed to her that there was something in his eyes which she\nhad not remarked before. Not only the great content that was everywhere,\nbut a deeper light, and the air of a judge who knew both good and evil,\nand could see both sides, and understood all, both to love and to hate.\n\n\"Little sister,\" he said, \"you have never wandered far; it is not needful\nfor such as you. Love teaches you, and you need no more; but when we have\nto be trained for an office like this, to make the way of the Lord clear\nthrough all the generations, reason is that we should see everything, and\nlearn all that man is and can be. These things are too deep for us; we\nstumble on, and know not till after. But now to me it is all clear.\"\n\nShe looked at him again and again while he spoke, and it seemed to her\nthat she saw in him such great knowledge and tenderness as made her glad;\nand how he could understand the follies that men had done, and fathom\nwhat real meaning was in them, and disentangle all the threads. He smiled\nas she gazed at him, and answered as if she had spoken.\n\n\"What was evil perishes, and what was good remains; almost everywhere\nthere is a little good. We could not understand all if we had not seen\nall and shared all.\"\n\n\"And the punishment too,\" she said, wondering more and more.\n\nHe smiled so joyfully that it was like laughter.\n\n\"Pain is a great angel,\" he said. \"The reason we hated him in the old\ndays was because he tended to death and decay; but when it is towards\nlife he leads, we fear him no more. The welcome thing of all in the land\nof darkness is when you see him first and know who he is; for by this you\nare aware that you have found the way.\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim did nothing but question with her anxious eyes, for\nthis was such a wonder to her, and she could not understand. But he only\nsat musing with a smile over the things he remembered. And at last he\nsaid,--\n\n\"If this is so interesting to you, you shall read it all in another\nplace, in the room where we have laid up our own experiences, in order to\nserve for the history afterwards. But we are still busy upon the work of\nthe earth. There is always something new to be discovered. And it is\nessential for the whole world that the chronicle should be full. I am in\ngreat joy because it was but just now that our Lord told me about that\nchild. Everything was imperfect without him, but now it is clear.\"\n\n\"You mean your brother? And you are happy though you are not sure if he\nis happy?\" the little Pilgrim said.\n\n\"It is not to be happy that we live,\" said he; and then, \"We are all\nhappy so soon as we have found the way.\"\n\nShe would have asked him more, but that he was called to a consultation\nwith some others of his kind, and had to leave her, waving his hand to\nher with a tender kindness which went to her heart. She looked after him\nwith great respect, scarcely knowing why; but it seemed to her that a man\nwho had been in the land of darkness, and made his way out of it, must be\nmore wonderful than any other. She looked round for a little upon the\ngreat library, full of all the books that had ever been written, and\nwhere people were doing their work, examining and reading and making\nextracts, every one with looks of so much interest, that she almost\nenvied them,--though it was a generous delight in seeing people so\nhappy in their occupation, and a desire to associate herself somehow in\nit, rather than any grudging of their satisfaction, that was in her\nmind. She went about all the courts of this palace alone, and everywhere\nsaw the same work going on, and everywhere met the same kind looks. Even\nwhen the greatest of all looked up from his work and saw her, he would\ngive her a friendly greeting and a smile; and nobody was too wise to lend\nan ear to the little visitor, or to answer her questions. And this was\nhow it was that she began to talk to another, who was seated at a great\ntable with many more, and who drew her to him by something that was in\nhis looks, though she could not have told what it was. It was not that he\nwas kinder than the rest, for they were all kind. She stood by him a\nlittle, and saw how he worked and would take something from one book and\nsomething from another, putting them ready for use. And it did not seem\nany trouble to do this work, but only pleasure, and the very pen in his\nhand was like a winged thing, as if it loved to write. When he saw her\nwatching him, he looked up and showed her the beautiful book out of which\nhe was copying, which was all illuminated with lovely pictures.\n\n\"This is one of the volumes of the great history,\" he said. \"There are\nsome things in it which are needed for another, and it is a pleasure to\nwork at it. If you will come here you will be able to see the page while\nI write.\"\n\nThen the little Pilgrim asked him some questions about the pictures, and\nhe answered her, describing and explaining them; for they were in the\nmiddle of the history, and she did not understand what it was. When she\nsaid, \"I ought not to trouble you, for you are busy,\" he laughed so\nkindly that she laughed too for pleasure. And he said,--\n\n\"There is no trouble here. When we are not allowed to work, as sometimes\nhappens, that makes us not quite so happy, but it is very seldom that it\nhappens so.\"\n\n\"Is it for punishment?\" she said.\n\nAnd then he laughed out with a sound which made all the others look up\nsmiling; and if they had not all looked so tenderly at her, as at a child\nwho has made such a mistake as it is pretty for the child to make, she\nwould have feared she had said something wrong; but she only laughed at\nherself too, and blushed a little, knowing that she was not wise: and to\nput her at her ease again, he turned the leaf and showed her other\npictures, and the story which went with them, from which he was copying\nsomething. And he said,--\n\n\"This is for another book, to show how the grace of the Father was\nbeautiful in some homes and families. It is not the great history, but\nconnected with it; and there are many who love that better than the story\nwhich is more great.\"\n\nThen the Pilgrim looked in his face and said,--\n\n\"What I want most is, to know about your homes here.\"\n\n\"It is all home here,\" he said, and smiled; and then, as he met her\nwistful looks, he went on to tell her that he and his brothers were not\nalways there. \"We have all our occupations,\" he said, \"and sometimes I am\nsent to inquire into facts that have happened, of which the record is not\nclear; for we must omit nothing; and sometimes we are told to rest and\ntake in new strength; and sometimes--\"\n\n\"But oh, forgive me,\" cried the little Pilgrim, \"you had some who were\nmore dear to you than all the world in the old time?\"\n\nAnd the others all looked up again at the question, and looked at her\nwith tender eyes, and said to the man whom she questioned,--\"Speak!\"\n\nHe made a little pause before he spoke, and he looked at one here and\nthere, and called to them,--\n\n\"Patience, brother,\" and \"Courage, brother.\" And then he said, \"Those\nwhom we loved best are nearly all with us; but some have not yet come.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said the little Pilgrim, \"but how then do you bear it, to be parted\nso long--so long?\"\n\nThen one of those to whom the first speaker had called out \"Patience\"\nrose, and came to her smiling; and he said,--\n\n\"I think every hour that perhaps she will come, and the joy will be so\ngreat, that thinking of that makes the waiting short: and nothing here is\nlong, for it never ends; and it will be so wonderful to hear her tell how\nthe Father has guided her, that it will be a delight to us all; and she\nwill be able to explain many things, not only for us, but for all; and we\nlove each other so that this separation is as nothing in comparison with\nwhat is to come.\"\n\nIt was beautiful to hear this, but it was not what the little Pilgrim\nexpected, for she thought they would have told her of the homes to which\nthey all returned when their work was over, and a life which was like the\nlife of the old time; but of this they said nothing, only looking at her\nwith smiling eyes, as at the curious questions of a child. And there were\nmany other things she would have asked, but refrained when she looked at\nthem, feeling as if she did not yet understand; when one of them broke\nforth suddenly in a louder voice, and said,--\n\n\"The little sister knows only the little language and the beginning of\ndays. She has not learned the mysteries, and what Love is, and what life\nis.\"\n\nAnd another cried, \"It is sweet to hear it again;\" and they all gathered\nround her with tender looks, and began to talk to each other, and tell\nher, as men will tell of the games of their childhood, of things that\nhappened, which were half-forgotten, in the old time.\n\nAfter this the little Pilgrim went out again into the beautiful city,\nfeeling in her heart that everything was a mystery, and that the days\nwould never be long enough to learn all that had yet to be learned, but\nknowing now that this too was the little language, and pleased with the\nsweet thought of so much that was to come. For one had whispered to her\nas she went out that the new tongue, and every explanation, as she was\nready for it, would come to her through one of those whom she loved best,\nwhich is the usage of that country. And when the stranger has no one\nthere that is very dear, then it is an angel who teaches the greater\nlanguage, and that is what happens often to the children who are\nbrought up in that heavenly place. When she reached the street again, she\nwas so pleased with this thought that it went out of her mind to ask her\nway to the great library, where she was to read the story of the\nhistorian's journey through the land of darkness; indeed she forgot that\nland altogether, and thought only of what was around her in the great\ncity, which is beyond everything that eye has seen, or that ear has\nheard, or that it has entered into the imagination to conceive. And now\nit seemed to her that she was much more familiar with the looks of the\npeople, and could distinguish between those who belonged to the city and\nthose who were visitors like herself; and also could tell which they were\nwho had entered into the mysteries of the kingdom, and which were, like\nherself, only acquainted with the beginning of days. And it came to her\nmind, she could not tell how, that it was best not to ask questions, but\nto wait until the beloved one should come, who would teach her the first\nwords. For in the mean time she did not feel at all impatient or\ndisturbed by her want of knowledge, but laughed a little at herself to\nsuppose that she could find out everything, and went on looking round\nher, and saying a word to every one she met, and enjoying the holiday\nlooks of all the strangers, and the sense she had in her heart of holiday\ntoo. She was walking on in this pleasant way, when she heard a sound that\nwas like silver trumpets, and saw the crowd turn towards an open space in\nwhich all the beautiful buildings were shaded with fine trees, and\nflowers were springing at the very edge of the pavements. The strangers\nall hastened along to hear what it was, and she with them, and some also\nof the people of the place. And as the little Pilgrim found herself\nwalking by a woman who was of these last, she asked her what it was.\n\nAnd the woman told her it was a poet who had come to say to them what had\nbeen revealed to him, and that the two with the silver trumpets were\nangels of the musicians' order, whose office it was to proclaim\neverything that was new, that the people should know. And many of those\nwho were at work in the palaces came out and joined the crowd, and the\npainter who had showed the little Pilgrim his picture, and many whose\nfaces she began to be acquainted with. The poet stood up upon a beautiful\npedestal all sculptured in stone, and with wreaths of living flowers hung\nupon it--and when the crowd had gathered in front of him, he began his\npoem. He told them that it was not about this land, or anything that\nhappened in it, which they knew as he did, but that it was a story of the\nold time, when men were walking in darkness, and when no one knew the\ntrue meaning even of what he himself did, but had to go on as if blindly,\nstumbling and groping with their hands. And \"Oh, brethren,\" he said,\n\"though all is more beautiful and joyful here where we know, yet to\nremember the days when we knew not, and the ways when all was uncertain,\nand the end could not be distinguished from the beginning, is sweet and\ndear; and that which was done in the dim twilight should be celebrated in\nthe day; and our Father himself loves to hear of those who, having not\nseen, loved, and who learned without any teacher, and followed the light,\nthough they did not understand.\"\n\nAnd then he told them the story of one who had lived in the old time; and\nin that air, which seemed to be made of sunshine, and amid all those\nstately palaces, he described to them the little earth which they had\nleft behind--the skies that were covered with clouds, and the ways that\nwere so rough and stony, and the cruelty of the oppressor, and the cries\nof those that were oppressed. And he showed the sickness and the\ntroubles, and the sorrow and danger; and how Death stalked about, and\ntore heart from heart; and how sometimes the strongest would fail, and\nthe truest fall under the power of a lie, and the tenderest forget to be\nkind; and how evil things lurked in every corner to beguile the dwellers\nthere; and how the days were short and the nights dark, and life so\nlittle that by the time a man had learned something it was his hour to\ndie. \"What can a soul do that is born there?\" he cried; \"for war is there\nand fighting, and perplexity and darkness; and no man knows if that\nwhich he does will be for good or evil, or can tell which is the best\nway, or know the end from the beginning; and those he loves the most are\na mystery to him, and their thoughts beyond his reach. And clouds are\nbetween him and the Father, and he is deceived with false gods and false\nteachers, who make him to love a lie.\" The people who were listening held\ntheir breath, and a shadow like a cloud fell on them, and they remembered\nand knew that it was true. But the next moment their hearts rebelled, and\none and another would have spoken, and the little Pilgrim herself had\nalmost cried out and made her plea for the dear earth which she loved;\nwhen he suddenly threw forth his voice again like a great song. \"Oh, dear\nmother earth,\" he cried; \"oh, little world and great, forgive thy son!\nfor lovely thou art and dear, and the sun of God shines upon thee, and\nthe sweet dews fall; and there were we born, and loved and died, and are\ncome hence to bless the Father and the Son. For in no other world, though\nthey are so vast, is it given to any to know the Lord in the darkness,\nand follow him groping, and make way through sin and death, and overcome\nthe evil, and conquer in his name.\" At which there was a great sound of\nweeping and of triumph, and the little Pilgrim could not contain herself,\nbut cried out too in joy as if for a deliverance. And then the poet told\nhis tale. And as he told them of the man who was poor and sorrowful and\nalone, and how he loved and was not loved again, and trusted and was\nbetrayed, and was tempted and drawn into the darkness, so that it seemed\nas if he must perish; but when hope was almost gone, turned again from\nthe edge of despair, and confronted all his enemies, and fought and\nconquered--the people followed every word with great outcries of love and\npity and wonder. For each one as he listened remembered his own career\nand that of his brethren in the old life, and admired to think that all\nthe evil was past, and wondered that out of such tribulation and through\nso many dangers all were safe and blessed here. And there were others\nthat were not of them, who listened, some seated at the windows of the\npalaces and some standing in the great square,--people who were not like\nthe others, whose bearing was more majestic, and who looked upon the\ncrowd all smiling and weeping, with wonder and interest, but had no\nknowledge of the cause, and listened as it were to a tale that is told.\nThe poet and his audience were as one, and at every period of the story\nthere was a deep breathing and pause, and every one looked at his\nneighbor, and some grasped each other's hands as they remembered all that\nwas in the past; but the strangers listened and gazed and observed all,\nas those who listen and are instructed in something beyond their\nknowledge. The little Pilgrim stood all this time not knowing where she\nwas, so intent was she upon the tale; and as she listened it seemed to\nher that all her own life was rolling out before her, and she remembered\nthe things that had been, and perceived how all had been shaped and\nguided, and trembled a little for the brother who was in danger, yet knew\nthat all would be well.\n\nThe woman who had been at her side listened too with all her heart,\nsaying to herself, as she stood in the crowd, \"He has left nothing out!\nThe little days they were so short, and the skies would change all in a\nmoment and one's heart with them. How he brings it all back!\" And she put\nup her hand to dry away a tear from her eyes, though her face all the\ntime was shining with the recollection. The little Pilgrim was glad to be\nby the side of a woman after talking with so many men, and she put out\nher hand and touched the cloak that this lady wore, and which was white\nand of the most beautiful texture, with gold threads woven in it, or\nsomething that looked like gold.\n\n\"Do you like,\" she said, \"to think of the old time?\"\n\nThe woman turned and looked down upon her, for she was tall and stately,\nand immediately took the hand of the little Pilgrim into hers, and held\nit without answering, till the poet had ended and come down from the\nplace where he had been standing. He came straight through the crowd to\nwhere this lady stood, and said something to her. \"You did well to tell\nme,\" looking at her with love in his eyes,--not the tender sweetness\nof all those kind looks around, but the love that is for one. The little\nPilgrim looked at them with her heart beating, and was very glad for\nthem, and happy in herself; for she had not seen this love before since\nshe came into the city, and it had troubled her to think that perhaps it\ndid not exist any more. \"I am glad,\" the lady said, and gave him her\nother hand; \"but here is a little sister who asks me something, and I\nmust answer her. I think she has but newly come.\"\n\n\"She has a face full of the morning,\" the poet said. It did the little\nPilgrim good to feel the touch of the warm, soft hand; and she was not\nafraid, but lifted her eyes and spoke to the lady and to the poet. \"It is\nbeautiful what you said to us. Sometimes in the old time we used to look\nup to the beautiful skies and wonder what there was above the clouds; but\nwe never thought that up here in this great city you would be thinking of\nwhat we were doing, and making beautiful poems all about us. We thought\nthat you would sing wonderful psalms, and talk of things high, high above\nus.\"\n\n\"The little sister does not know what the meaning of the earth is,\" the\npoet said. \"It is but a little speck, but it is the centre of all. Let\nher walk with us, and we will go home, and you will tell her, Ama, for I\nlove to hear you talk.\"\n\n\"Will you come with us?\" the lady said.\n\nAnd the little Pilgrim's heart leaped up in her, to think she was now\ngoing to see a home in this wonderful city; and they went along, hand in\nhand, and though they were three together, and many were coming and\ngoing, there was no difficulty, for every one made way for them. And\nthere was a little murmur of pleasure as the poet passed, and those who\nhad heard his poem made obeisance to him, and thanked him, and thanked\nthe Father for him that he was able to show them so many beautiful\nthings. And they walked along the street which was shining with color,\nand saw as they passed how the master painter had come to his work, and\nwas standing upon the balcony where the little Pilgrim had been, and\nbringing out of the wall, under his hand, faces which were full of life,\nand which seemed to spring forth as if they had been hidden there. \"Let\nus wait a little and see him working,\" the poet said; and all round about\nthe people stopped on their way, and there was a soft cry of pleasure and\npraise all through the beautiful street. And the painter with whom the\nlittle Pilgrim had talked before came, and stood behind her as if he had\nbeen an old friend, and called out to her at every new touch to mark how\nthis and that was done. She did not understand as he did, but she saw how\nbeautiful it was, and she was glad to have seen the great painter, as she\nhad been glad to hear the great poet. It seemed to the little Pilgrim as\nif everything happened well for her, and that no one had ever been so\nblessed before. And to make it all more sweet, this new friend, this\ngreat and sweet lady, always held her hand, and pressed it softly when\nsomething more lovely appeared; and even the pictured faces on the wall\nseemed to beam upon her, as they came out one by one like the stars in\nthe sky. Then the three went on again, and passed by many more beautiful\npalaces, and great streets leading away into the light, till you could\nsee no further; and they met with bands of singers who sang so sweetly\nthat the heart seemed to leap out of the Pilgrim's breast to meet with\nthem, for above all things this was what she had loved most. And out of\none of the palaces there came such glorious music that everything she had\nseen and heard before seemed as nothing in comparison. And amid all these\ndelights they went on and on, but without wearying, till they came out of\nthe streets into lovely walks and alleys, and made their way to the banks\nof a great river, which seemed to sing, too, a soft melody of its own.\n\nAnd here there were some fair houses surrounded by gardens and flowers\nthat grew everywhere, and the doors were all open, and within everything\nwas lovely and still, and ready for rest if you were weary. The little\nPilgrim was not weary; but the lady placed her upon a couch in the porch,\nwhere the pillars and the roof were all formed of interlacing plants and\nflowers; and there they sat with her, and talked, and explained to her\nmany things. They told her that the earth though so small was the place\nin all the world to which the thoughts of those above were turned. \"And\nnot only of us who have lived there, but of all our brothers in the other\nworlds; for we are the race which the Father has chosen to be the\nexample. In every age there is one that is the scene of the struggle and\nthe victory, and it is for this reason that the chronicles are made, and\nthat we are all placed here to gather the meaning of what has been done\namong men. And I am one of those,\" the lady said, \"that go back to the\ndear earth and gather up the tale of what our little brethren are doing.\nI have not to succor like some others, but only to see and bring the\nnews; and he makes them into great poems, as you have heard; and\nsometimes the master painter will take one and make of it a picture; and\nthere is nothing that is so delightful to us as when we can bring back\nthe histories of beautiful things.\"\n\n\"But, oh,\" said the little Pilgrim, \"what can there be on earth so\nbeautiful as the meanest thing that is here?\"\n\nThen they both smiled upon her and said, \"It is more beautiful than the\nmost beautiful thing here to see how, under the low skies and in the\nshort days, a soul will turn to our Father. And sometimes,\" said Ama,\n\"when I am watching, one will wander and stray, and be led into the\ndark till my heart is sick; then come back and make me glad. Sometimes I\ncry out within myself to the Father, and say, 'O my Father, it is\nenough!' and it will seem to me that it is not possible to stand by and\nsee his destruction.  And then while you are gazing, while you are\ncrying, he will recover and return, and go on again. And to the angels it\nis more wonderful than to us, for they have never lived there. And all\nthe other worlds are eager to hear what we can tell them. For no one\nknows except the Father how the battle will turn, or when it will all be\naccomplished; and there are some who tremble for our little brethren. For\nto look down and see how little light there is, and how no one knows what\nmay happen to him next, makes them afraid who never were there.\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim listened with an intent face, clasping her hands, and\nsaid,--\n\n\"But it never could be that our Father should be overcome by evil. Is not\nthat known in all the worlds?\"\n\nThen the lady turned and kissed her; and the poet broke forth in singing,\nand said, \"Faith is more heavenly than heaven; it is more beautiful than\nthe angels. It is the only voice that can answer to our Father. We praise\nhim, we glorify him, we love his name; but there is but one response to\nhim through all the worlds, and that is the cry of the little brothers,\nwho see nothing and know nothing, but believe that he will never fail.\"\n\nAt this the little Pilgrim wept, for her heart was touched; but she\nsaid,--\n\n\"We are not so ignorant; for we have our Lord who is our Brother, and he\nteaches us all that we require to know.\"\n\nUpon this the poet rose and lifted up his hands and sang again a great\nsong; it was in the other language which the little Pilgrim still did not\nunderstand, but she could make out that it sounded like a great\nproclamation that He was wise as he was good, and called upon all to see\nthat the Lord had chosen the only way: and the sound of the poet's voice\nwas like a great trumpet sounding bold and sweet, as if to tell this to\nthose who were far away.\n\n\"For you must know,\" said the Lady Ama, who all the time held the\nPilgrim's hand, \"that it is permitted to all to judge according to the\nwisdom that has been given them. And there are some who think that our\ndear Lord might have found another way, and that wait, sometimes with\ntrembling, lest he should fail; but not among us who have lived on earth,\nfor we know. And it is our work to show to all the worlds that his way\nnever fails, and how wonderful it is, and beautiful above all that heart\nhas conceived. And thus we justify the ways of God, who is our Father.\nBut in the other worlds there are many who will continue to fear until\nthe history of the earth is all ended and the chronicles are made\ncomplete.\"\n\n\"And will that be long?\" the little Pilgrim cried, feeling in her heart\nthat she would like to go to all the worlds and tell them of our Lord,\nand of his love, and how the thought of him makes you strong; and it\ntroubled her a little to hear her friends speak of the low skies, and the\nshort days, and the dimness of that dear country which she had left\nbehind, in which there were so many still whom she loved.\n\nUpon this Ama shook her head, and said that of that day no one knew, not\neven our Lord, but only the Father; and then she smiled and answered the\nlittle Pilgrim's thought. \"When we go back,\" she said, \"it is not as when\nwe lived there; for now we see all the dangers of it and the mysteries\nwhich we did not see before. It was by the Father's dear love that we did\nnot see what was around us and about us while we lived there, for then\nour hearts would have fainted; and that makes us wonder now that any one\nendures to the end.\"\n\n\"You are a great deal wiser than I am,\" said the little Pilgrim; \"but,\nthough our hearts had fainted, how could we have been overcome? For He\nwas on our side.\"\n\nAt this neither of them made any reply at first, but looked at her; and\nat length the poet said that she had brought many thoughts back to his\nmind, and how he had himself been almost worsted when one like her came\nto him and gave strength to his soul. \"For that He was on our side was\nthe only thing she knew,\" he said, \"and all that could be learned or\ndiscovered was not worthy of naming beside it. And this I must tell when\nnext I speak to the people, and how our little sister brought it to my\nmind.\"\n\nAnd then they paused from this discourse, and the little Pilgrim looked\nround upon the beautiful houses and the fair gardens, and she said,--\n\n\"You live here? and do you come home at night?--but I do not mean at\nnight, I mean when your work is done. And are they poets like you that\ndwell all about in these pleasant places, and the--\"\n\nShe would have said the children, but stopped, not knowing if perhaps it\nmight be unkind to speak of the children when she saw none there.\n\nUpon this the lady smiled once more, and said,--\n\n\"The door stands open always, so that no one is shut out, and the\nchildren come and go when they will. They are children no longer, and\nthey have their appointed work like him and me.\"\n\n\"And you are always among those you love?\" the Pilgrim said; upon which\nthey smiled again and said, \"We all love each other;\" and the lady held\nher hand in both of hers, and caressed it, and softly laughed and said,\n\"You know only the little language. When you have been taught the other\nyou will learn many beautiful things.\"\n\nShe rested for some time after this, and talked much with her new\nfriends; and then there came into the heart of the little Pilgrim a\nlonging to go to the place which was appointed for her, and which was her\nhome, and to do the work which had been given her to do. And when the\nlady saw this she rose and said that she would accompany her a little\nupon her way. But the poet bid her farewell and remained under the porch,\nwith the green branches shading him, and the flowers twining round the\npillars, and the open door of this beautiful house behind him. When\nshe looked back upon him he waved his hand to her as if bidding her\nGod-speed, and the lady by her side looked back too and waved her hand,\nand the little Pilgrim felt tears of happiness come to her eyes; for she\nhad been wondering with a little disappointment to see that the people in\nthe city, except those who were strangers, were chiefly alone, and not\nlike those in the old world where the husband and wife go together. It\nconsoled her to see again two who were one. The lady pressed her hand in\nanswer to her thought, and bade her pause a moment and look back into the\ncity as they passed the end of the great street out of which they came.\nAnd then the Pilgrim was more and more consoled, for she saw many who\nhad before been alone now walking together hand in hand.\n\n\"It is not as it was,\" Ama said. \"For all of us have work to do which is\nneeded for the worlds, and it is no longer needful that one should sit at\nhome while the other goes forth; for our work is not for our life as of\nold, or for ourselves, but for the Father who has given us so great a\ntrust. And, little sister, you must know that though we are not so great\nas the angels, nor as many that come to visit us from the other worlds,\nyet we are nearer to him. For we are in his secret, and it is ours to\nmake it clear.\"\n\nThe little Pilgrim's heart was very full to hear this; but she said,--\n\n\"I was never clever, nor knew much. It is better for me to go away to my\nlittle border-land, and help the strangers who do not know the way.\"\n\n\"Whatever is your work is the best,\" the lady said; \"but though you are\nso little you are in the Father's secret too, for it is nature to you to\nknow what the others cannot be sure of, that we must have the victory at\nthe last: so that we have this between us, the Father and we. And though\nall are his children, we are of the kindred of God, because of our Lord\nwho is our Brother.\" And then the Lady Ama kissed her, and bade her when\nshe returned to the great city, either for rest or for love, or because\nthe Father sent for her, that she should come to the house by the river.\n\"For we are friends for ever,\" she said, and so threw her white veil over\nher head, and was gone upon her mission, whither the little Pilgrim did\nnot know.\n\nAnd now she found herself at a distance from the great city, which shone\nin the light with its beautiful towers, and roofs, and all its monuments,\nsoftly fringed with trees, and set in a heavenly firmament. And the\nPilgrim thought of those words that described this lovely place as a\nbride adorned for her husband, and did not wonder at him who had said\nthat her streets were of gold and her gates of pearl, because gold and\npearls and precious jewels were as nothing to the glory and the beauty of\nher. The little Pilgrim was glad to have seen these wonderful things, and\nher mind was like a cup running over with almost more than it could\ncontain. It seemed to her that there never could be a time when she\nshould want for wonder and interest and delight, so long as she had this\nto think of. Yet she was not sorry to turn her back upon the beautiful\ncity, but went on her way singing in unutterable content, and thinking\nover what the lady had said, that we were in God's secret, more than all\nthe great worlds above and even the angels, because of knowing how it is\nthat in darkness and doubt, and without any open vision, a man may still\nkeep the right way. The path lay along the bank of the river which flowed\nbeside her and made the air full of music, and a soft air blew across the\nrunning stream and breathed in her face and refreshed her, and the birds\nsang in all the trees. And as she passed through the villages the people\ncame out to meet her, and asked of her if she had come from the city, and\nwhat she had seen there. And everywhere she found friends, and kind\nvoices that gave her greeting. But some would ask her why she still spoke\nthe little language, though it was sweet to their ears; and others when\nthey heard it hastened to call from the houses and the fields some among\nthem who knew the other tongue but a little, and who came and crowded\nround the little Pilgrim, and asked her many questions both about the\nthings she had been seeing and about the old time. And she perceived that\nthe village folk were a simple folk, not learned and wise like those she\nhad left; and that though they lived within sight of the great city, and\nshowed every stranger the beautiful view of it, and the glory of its\ntowers, yet few among them had travelled there; for they were so content\nwith their fields, and their river, and the shade of their trees, and the\nbirds singing, and their simple life, that they wanted no change; though\nit pleased them to receive the little Pilgrim, and they brought her into\ntheir villages rejoicing, and called every one to see her. And they told\nher that they had all been poor and labored hard in the old time, and had\nnever rested; so that now it was the Father's good pleasure that they\nshould enjoy great peace and consolation among the fresh-breathing fields\nand on the riverside, so that there were many who even now had little\noccupation except to think of the Father's goodness, and to rest. And\nthey told her how the Lord himself would come among them, and sit down\nunder a tree, and tell them one of his parables, and make them all more\nhappy than words could say; and how sometimes he would send one out of\nthe beautiful city, with a poem or tale to say to them, and bands of\nlovely music, more lovely than anything beside, except the sound of the\nLord's own voice. \"And what is more wonderful, the angels themselves come\noften and listen to us,\" they said, \"when we begin to talk and remind\neach other of the old time, and how we suffered heat and cold, and were\nbowed down with labor, and bending over the soil, and how sometimes the\nharvest would fail us, and sometimes we had not bread, and sometimes\nwould hush the children to sleep because there was nothing to give them;\nand how we grew old and weary, and still worked on and on.\" \"We are\nthose who were old,\" a number of them called out to her, with a murmuring\nsound of laughter, one looking over another's shoulder. And one woman\nsaid, \"The angels say to us, 'Did you never think the Father had forsaken\nyou and the Lord forgotten you?'\" And all the rest answered as in a\nchorus, \"There were moments that we thought this; but all the time we\nknew that it could not be.\" \"And the angels wonder at us,\" said another.\nAll this they said, crowding one before another, every one anxious to say\nsomething, and sometimes speaking together, but always in accord. And\nthen there was a sound of laughter and pleasure, both at the strange\nthought that the Lord could have forgotten them, and at the wonder of the\nangels over their simple tales. And immediately they began to remind each\nother, and say, \"Do you remember?\" and they told the little Pilgrim a\nhundred tales of the hardships and troubles they had known, all smiling\nand radiant with pleasure; and at every new account the others would\napplaud and rejoice, feeling the happiness all the more for the evils\nthat were past. And some of them led her into their gardens to show her\ntheir flowers, and to tell her how they had begun to study and learn\nhow colors were changed and form perfected, and the secrets of the growth\nand of the germ, of which they had been ignorant. And others arranged\nthemselves in choirs, and sang to her delightful songs of the fields, and\naccompanied her out upon her way, singing and answering to each other.\nThe difference between the simple folk and the greatness of the others\nmade the little Pilgrim wonder and admire; and she loved them in her\nsimplicity, and turned back many a time to wave her hand to them, and to\nlisten to the lovely simple singing as it went further and further away.\nIt had an evening tone of rest and quietness, and of protection and\npeace. \"He leadeth me by the green pastures and beside the quiet waters,\"\nshe said to herself; and her heart swelled with pleasure to think that it\nwas those who had been so old, and so weary and poor, who had this rest\nto console them for all their sorrows.\n\nAnd as she went along, not only did she pass through many other villages,\nbut met many on the way who were travelling towards the great city, and\nwould greet her sweetly as they passed, and sometimes stop to say a\npleasant word, so that the little Pilgrim was never lonely wherever she\nwent. But most of them began to speak to her in the other language, which\nwas as beautiful and sweet as music, but which she could not understand;\nand they were surprised to find her ignorant of it, not knowing that she\nwas but a new-comer into these lands. And there were many things that\ncould not be told but in that language, for the earthly tongue had no\nwords to express them. The little Pilgrim was a little sad not to\nunderstand what was said to her, but cheered herself with the thought\nthat it should be taught to her by one whom she loved best. The way by\nthe riverside was very cheerful and bright, with many people coming and\ngoing, and many villages, some of them with a bridge across the stream,\nsome withdrawn among the fields, but all of them bright and full of life,\nand with sounds of music, and voices, and footsteps: and the little\nPilgrim felt no weariness, and moved along as lightly as a child, taking\ngreat pleasure in everything she saw, and answering all the friendly\ngreetings with all her heart, yet glad to think that she was approaching\never nearer to the country where it was ordained that she should dwell\nfor a time and succor the strangers, and receive those who were newly\narrived. And she consoled herself with the thought that there was no need\nof any language but that which she knew. As this went through her mind,\nmaking her glad, she suddenly became aware of one who was walking by her\nside, a lady who was covered with a veil white and shining like that\nwhich Ama had worn in the beautiful city. It hung about this stranger's\nhead so that it was not easy to see her face, but the sound of her voice\nwas very sweet in the pilgrim's ear, yet startled her like the sound of\nsomething which she knew well, but could not remember. And as there\nwere few who were going that way, she was glad and said, \"Let us walk\ntogether, if that pleases you.\" And the stranger said, \"It is for that I\nhave come,\" which was a reply which made the little Pilgrim wonder more\nand more, though she was very glad and joyful to have this companion upon\nher way. And then the lady began to ask her many questions, not about the\ncity, or the great things she had seen, but about herself, and what the\ndear Lord had given her to do.\n\n\"I am little and weak, and I cannot do much,\" the little Pilgrim said.\n\"It is nothing but pleasure. It is to welcome those that are coming, and\ntell them. Sometimes they are astonished and do not know. I was so\nmyself. I came in my sleep, and understood nothing. But now that I know,\nit is sweet to tell them that they need not fear.\"\n\n\"I was glad,\" the lady said, \"that you came in your sleep; for sometimes\nthe way is dark and hard, and you are little and tender. When your\nbrother comes you will be the first to see him, and show him the way.\"\n\n\"My brother! is he coming?\" the little Pilgrim cried. And then she said\nwith a wistful look, \"But we are all brethren, and you mean only one of\nthose who are the children of our Father. You must forgive me that I do\nnot know the higher speech, but only what is natural, for I have not yet\nbeen long here.\"\n\n\"He whom I mean is called--\" and here the lady said a name which was the\ntrue name of a brother born whom the Pilgrim loved above all others. She\ngave a cry, and then she said, trembling, \"I know your voice, but I\ncannot see your face. And what you say makes me think of many things. No\none else has covered her face when she has spoken to me. I know you, and\nyet I cannot tell who you are.\"\n\nThe woman stood for a little without saying a word, and then very softly,\nin a voice which only the heart heard, she called the little Pilgrim by\nher name.\n\n\"MOTHER,\" cried the Pilgrim, with such a cry of joy that it echoed all\nabout in the sweet air, and flung herself upon the veiled lady, and drew\nthe veil from her face, and saw that it was she. And with this sight\nthere came a revelation which flooded her soul with happiness. For the\nface which had been old and feeble was old no longer, but fair in the\nmaturity of day; and the figure that had been bent and weary was full of\na tender majesty, and the arms that clasped her about were warm and soft\nwith love and life. And all that had changed their relations in the other\ndays and made the mother in her weakness seem as a child, and transferred\nall protection and strength to the daughter, was gone for ever and the\nlittle Pilgrim beheld in a rapture one who was her sister and equal, yet\never above her,--more near to her than any, though all were so near,--one\nof whom she herself was a part, yet another, and who knew all her\nthoughts and the way of them before they arose in her. And to see her\nface as in the days of her prime, and her eyes so clear and wise, and to\nfeel once more that which is different from the love of all, that which\nis still most sweet where all is sweet, the love of one, was like a crown\nto her in her happiness. The little Pilgrim could not think for joy, nor\nsay a word, but held this dear mother's hands and looked in her face, and\nher heart soared away to the Father in thanks and joy. They sat down by\nthe roadside under the shade of the trees,--while the river ran softly\nby, and everything was hushed out of sympathy and kindness,--and\nquestioned each other of all that had been and was to be. And the little\nPilgrim told all the little news of home, and of the brothers and sisters\nand the children that had been born, and of those whose faces were turned\ntowards this better country; and the mother smiled and listened and would\nhave heard all over and over, although many things she already knew. \"But\nwhy should I tell you, for did not you watch over us and see all we did,\nand were not you near us always?\" the little Pilgrim said.\n\n\"How could that be?\" said the mother; \"for we are not like our Lord, to\nbe everywhere. We come and go where we are sent. But sometimes we knew,\nand sometimes saw, and always loved. And whenever our hearts were sick\nfor news it was but to go to him, and he told us everything. And now, my\nlittle one, you are as we are, and have seen the Lord. And this has been\ngiven us, to teach our child once more, and show you the heavenly\nlanguage, that you may understand all, both the little and the great.\"\n\nThen the Pilgrim lifted her head from her mother's bosom, and looked in\nher face with eyes full of longing. \"You said 'we,'\" she said.\n\nThe mother did nothing but smile; then lifted her eyes and looked along\nthe beautiful path of the river to where some one was coming to join\nthem. And the little Pilgrim cried out again, in wonder and joy; and\npresently found herself seated between them, her father and her mother,\nthe two who had loved her most in the other days. They looked more\nbeautiful than the angels and all the great persons whom she had seen;\nfor still they were hers and she was theirs more than all the angels and\nall the blessed could be. And thus she learned that though the new may\ntake the place of the old, and many things may blossom out of it like\nflowers, yet that the old is never done away. And then they sat together,\ntelling of everything that had befallen, and all the little tender things\nthat were of no import, and all the great changes and noble ways, and the\nwonders of heaven above--and the earth beneath, for all, were open to\nthem, both great and small; and when they had satisfied their souls with\nthese, her father and mother began to teach her the other language,\nsmiling often at her faltering tongue, and telling her the same thing\nover and over till she learnt it; and her father called her his little\nfoolish one, as he had done in the old days; and at last, when they had\nkissed her and blessed her, and told her how to come home to them when\nshe was weary, they gave her, as the Father had permitted them, with joy\nand blessing, her new name.\n\nThe little Pilgrim was tired with happiness and all the wonder and\npleasure; and as she sat there in the silence; leaning upon those who\nwere so dear to her, the soft air grew sweeter and sweeter about her, and\nthe light faded softly into a dimness of tender indulgence and privilege\nfor her, because she was still little and weak. And whether that heavenly\nsuspense of all her faculties was sleep or not she knew not, but it was\nsuch as in all her life she had never known. When she came back to\nherself, it was by the sound of many voices calling her, and many people\nhastening past and beckoning to her to join them.\n\n\"Come, come,\" they said, \"little sister: there has been great trouble in\nthe other life, and many have arrived suddenly and are afraid. Come,\ncome, and help them,--come and help them!\"\n\nAnd she sprang up from her soft seat, and found that she was no longer by\nthe riverside, or within sight of the great city, or in the arms of those\nshe loved, but stood on one of the flowery paths of her own border-land,\nand saw her fellows hastening towards the gates where there seemed a\ngreat crowd. And she was no longer weary, but full of life and strength;\nand it seemed to her that she could take them up in her arms, those\ntrembling strangers, and carry them straight to the Father, so strong was\nshe, and light, and full of force. And above all the gladness she had\nfelt, and all her pleasure in what she had seen, and more happy even than\nthe meeting with those she loved most, was her happiness how, as she went\nalong as light as the breeze to receive the strangers. She was so eager\nthat she began to sing a song of welcome as she hastened on. \"Oh,\nwelcome, welcome!\" she cried; and as she sang she knew it was one of the\nheavenly melodies which she had heard in the great city; and she hastened\non, her feet flying over the flowery ways, thinking how the great worlds\nwere all watching, and the angels looking on, and the whole universe\nwaiting till it should be proved to them that the dear Lord, the Brother\nof us all, had chosen the perfect way, and that over all evil and the\nsorrow he was the Conqueror alone.\n\nAnd the little Pilgrim's voice, though it was so small, echoed away\nthrough the great firmament to where the other worlds were watching to\nsee what should come, and cheered the anxious faces of some great lords\nand princes far more great than she, who were of a nobler race than man;\nfor it was said among the stars that when such a little sound could reach\nso far, it was a token that the Lord had chosen aright, and that his\nmethod must be the best. And it breathed over the earth like some one\nsaying Courage! to those whose hearts were failing; and it dropped down,\ndown, into the great confusions and traffic of the Land of Darkness, and\nstartled many, like the cry of a child calling and calling, and never\nceasing, \"Come! and come! and come!\"","title":"A Little Pilgrim: Stories of the Seen and the Unseen","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":26624}