"But do you mean—You cannot mean—I have never been so well: I am so strong: I have no trouble—anywhere: I am full of life."
The other nodded her beautiful head with a more beautiful smile, and the little Pilgrim burst out in a great cry of joy, and said,—"Is this all? Is it over?—Is it all over? Is it possible that this can be all?"
"Were you afraid of it?" the other said. There was a little agitation for the moment in her heart. She was so glad, so relieved and thankful, that it took away her breath. She could not get over the wonder of it.
"To think one should look forward to it so long, and wonder, and be even unhappy trying to divine what it will be—and this all!"
"Ah, but the angel was very gentle with you," said the young woman; "you were so tender and worn, that he only smiled and took you sleeping. There are other ways. But it is always wonderful to think it is over, as you say."
The little Pilgrim could do nothing but talk of it, as one does after a very great event. "Are you sure, quite sure, it is so?" she said. "It would be dreadful to find it only a dream, to go to sleep again, and wake up—there—" This thought troubled her for a moment. The vision of the bedchamber came back; but this time she felt it was only a vision. "Were you afraid too?" she said, in a low voice.
"I never thought of it at all," the beautiful stranger said; "I did not think it would come to me. But I was very sorry for the others to whom it came, and grudged that they should lose the beautiful earth, and life, and all that was so sweet."
"My dear!" cried the Pilgrim, as if she had never died, "oh, but this is far sweeter! And the heart is so light, and it is, happiness only to breathe. Is it heaven here? It must be heaven."
"I do not know if it is heaven. We have so many things to learn. They cannot tell you every thing at once," said the beautiful lady. "I have seen some of the people I was sorry for, and when I told them, we laughed—as you and I laughed just now—for pleasure."
"That makes me think" said the little Pilgrim; "if I have died, as you say—which is so strange, and me so living—if I have died, they will have found it out. The house will be all dark, and they will be breaking their hearts. Oh, how could I forget them in my selfishness, and be happy! I so light-hearted, while they—"
She sat down hastily, and covered her face with her hands and wept. The other looked at her for a moment, then kissed her for comfort, and cried too. The two happy creatures sat there weeping together, thinking of those they had left behind, with an exquisite grief which was not unhappiness, which was sweet with love and pity. "And oh," said the little Pilgrim, "what can we do to tell them not to grieve? Cannot you send? cannot you speak? cannot one go to tell them?"
The heavenly stranger shook her head.
"It is not well, they all say. Sometimes one has been permitted; but they do not know you," she said, with a pitiful look in her sweet eyes. "My mother told me that her heart was so sick for me, she was allowed to go; and she went and stood by me, and spoke to me, and I did not know her. She came back so sad and sorry, that they took her at once to our Father; and there, you know, she found that it was all well. All is well when you are there."
"Ah," said the little Pilgrim, "I have been thinking of other things. Of how happy I was, and of them; but never of the Father,—just as if I had not died."
The other smiled upon her with a wonderful smile.
"Do you think he will be offended—our Father—as if he were one of us?" she said.
And then the little Pilgrim, in her sudden grief to have forgotten him, became conscious of a new rapture unexplainable in words. She felt his understanding to envelop her little spirit with a soft and clear penetration, and that nothing she did or said could ever be misconceived more. "Will you take me to him?" she said, trembling yet glad, clasping her hands. And once again the other shook her head.
"They will take us both when it is time," she said: "we do not go at our own will. But I have seen our Brother—"
"Oh, take me to him!" the little Pilgrim cried. "Let me see his face! I have so many things to say to him. I want to ask him—Oh, take me to where I can see his face!"
And then once again the heavenly lady smiled.
"I have seen him," she said. "He is always about—now here, now there. He will come and see you, perhaps when you are not thinking. But when he pleases. We do not think here of what we will—"
The little Pilgrim sat very still, wondering at all this. She had thought when a soul left the earth that it went at once to God, and thought of nothing more, except worship and singing of praises. But this was different from her thoughts. She sat and pondered and wondered. She was baffled at many points. She was not changed, as she expected, but so much like herself; still—still perplexed, and feeling herself foolish; not understanding: toiling after a something which she could not grasp. The only difference was that it was no trouble to her now. She smiled at herself and at her dullness, feeling sure that by and by she would understand.
"And don't you wonder too?" she said to her companion, which was a speech such as she used to make upon the earth, when people thought her little remarks disjointed, and did not always see the connection of them. But her friend of heaven knew what she meant.
"I do nothing but wonder," she said, "for it is all so natural, not what we thought."
"Is it long since you have been here?" the Pilgrim said.
"I came before you; but how long or how short I cannot tell, for that is not how we count. We count only by what happens to us. And nothing yet has happened to me, except that I have seen our Brother. My mother sees him always. That means she has lived here a long time, and well—"
"Is it possible to live ill—in heaven?" The little Pilgrim's eyes grew large, as if they were going to have tears in them, and a little shadow seemed to come over her. But the other laughed softly, and restored all her confidence.
"I have told you I do not know if it is heaven or not. No one does ill, but some do little, and some do much, just as it used to be. Do you remember in Dante there was a lazy spirit that stayed about the gates and never got farther? But perhaps you never read that."
"I was not clever," said the little Pilgrim, wistfully; "no, I never read it. I wish I had known more."
Upon which the beautiful lady kissed her again to give her courage, and said,—
"It does not matter at all. It all comes to you, whether you have known it or not."
"Then your mother came here long ago?" said the Pilgrim. "Ah, then I shall see my mother too."
"Oh, very soon, as soon as she can come; but there are so many things to do. Sometimes we can go and meet those who are coming; but it is not always so. I remember that she had a message. She could not leave her business, you may be sure, or she would have been here."
"Then you know my mother? Oh, and my dearest father too?"
"We all know each other," the lady said with a smile.
"And you? did you come to meet me—only out of kindness, though I do not know you?" the little Pilgrim said.
"I am nothing but an idler," said the beautiful lady, "making acquaintance. I am of little use as yet. I was very hard worked before I came here, and they think it well that we should sit in the sun and take a little rest, and find things out."
Then the little Pilgrim sat still and mused, and felt in her heart that she had found many things