"I am glad to
see you, because there are few who come hither willingly; and the old
and weary are cheered by the sight of those that are young and strong.
Amroth I know. But who are you, my child? You have not been among us
long. Have you found your work and place here yet?" I told him my story
in a few words, and he smiled indulgently. "There is nothing like being
at work," he said. "Even my business here, which seems sad enough to
most people, must be done; and I do it very willingly. Do not be
frightened, my child," he said to me suddenly, drawing me nearer to him,
and folding my arm beneath his own. "It is only on earth that we are
frightened of pain; it spoils our poor plans, it makes us fretful and
miserable, it brings us into the shadow of death. But for all that, as
Amroth knows, it is the best and most fruitful of all the works that the
Father does for man, and the thing dearest to His heart. We cannot
prosper till we suffer, and suffering leads us very swiftly into joy and
peace. Indeed this Tower of Pain, as it is called, is in fact nothing
but the Tower of Love. Not until love is touched with pain does it
become beautiful, and the joy that comes through pain is the only real
thing in the world. Of course, when my great engine here sends a thrill
into a careless life, it comes as a dark surprise; but then follow
courage and patience and wonder, and all the dear tendance of Love. I
have borne it all myself a hundred times, and I shall bear it again if
the Father wills it. But when you leave me here, do not think of me as
of one who works, grim and indifferent, wrecking lives and destroying
homes. It is but the burning of the weeds of life; and it is as needful
as the sunshine and the rain. Pain does not wander aimlessly, smiting
down by mischance and by accident; it comes as the close and dear
intention of the Father's heart, and is to a man as a trumpet-call from
the land of life, not as a knell from the land of death. And now, dear
children, you must leave me, for I have much to do. And I will give
you," he added, turning to me, "a gift which shall be your comfort, and
a token that you have been here, and seen the worst and the best that
there is to see."

He drew from under his cloak a ring, a circlet of gold holding a red
stone with a flaming heart, and put it on my finger. There pierced
through me a pang intenser than any I had ever experienced, in which all
the love and sorrow I had ever known seemed to