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 everything 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 lighthearted 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,