riend, this
great and sweet lady, always held her hand, and pressed it softly when
something more lovely appeared; and even the pictured faces on the wall
seemed to beam upon her, as they came out one by one like the stars in
the sky. Then the three went on again, and passed by many more beautiful
palaces, and great streets leading away into the light, till you could
see no further; and they met with bands of singers who sang so sweetly
that the heart seemed to leap out of the Pilgrim's breast to meet with
them, for above all things this was what she had loved most. And out of
one of the palaces there came such glorious music that everything she had
seen and heard before seemed as nothing in comparison. And amid all these
delights they went on and on, but without wearying, till they came out of
the streets into lovely walks and alleys, and made their way to the banks
of a great river, which seemed to sing, too, a soft melody of its own.

And here there were some fair houses surrounded by gardens and flowers
that grew everywhere, and the doors were all open, and within everything
was lovely and still, and ready for rest if you were weary. The little
Pilgrim was not weary; but the lady placed her upon a couch in the porch,
where the pillars and the roof were all formed of interlacing plants and
flowers; and there they sat with her, and talked, and explained to her
many things. They told her that the earth though so small was the place
in all the world to which the thoughts of those above were turned. "And
not only of us who have lived there, but of all our brothers in the other
worlds; for we are the race which the Father has chosen to be the
example. In every age there is one that is the scene of the struggle and
the victory, and it is for this reason that the chronicles are made, and
that we are all placed here to gather the meaning of what has been done
among men. And I am one of those," the lady said, "that go back to the
dear earth and gather up the tale of what our little brethren are doing.
I have not to succor like some others, but only to see and bring the
news; and he makes them into great poems, as you have heard; and
sometimes the master painter will take one and make of it a picture; and
there is nothing that is so delightful to us as when we can bring back
the histories of beautiful things."

"But, oh," said the little Pilgrim, "what can there be on earth so
beautiful as the meanest thing that is here?"

T