'That is
right--that is complete--that is just as it ought to be.' Do you
understand what I mean?" he said, turning to her with a smile.

"I understand it perfectly," she cried, clasping her hands together with
the delight of accord. "Don't you think that is one of the things that
are so happy here? you understand at half a word."

"Not everybody," he said, and smiled upon her like a brother; "for we are
not all alike even here."

"Were you a painter?" she said, "in--in the other--"

"In the old times. I was one of those that strove for the mastery, and
sometimes grudged--We remember these things at times," he said gravely,
"to make us more aware of the blessedness of being content."

"It is long since then?" she said with some wistfulness; upon which he
smiled again.

"So long," he said, "that we have worn out most of our links to the world
below. We have all come away, and those who were after us for
generations. But you are a new-comer."

"And are they all with you? are you all--together? do you live--as in the
old time?"

Upon this the painter smiled, but not so brightly as before.

"Not as in the old time," he said, "nor are they all here. Some are still
upon the way, and of some we have no certainty, only news from time to
time. The angels are very good to us. They never miss an occasion to
bring us news; for they go everywhere, you know."

"Yes," said the little Pilgrim, though indeed she had not known it till
now; but it seemed to her as if it had come to her mind by nature and she
had never needed to be told.

"They are so tender-hearted," the painter said; "and more than that, they
are very curious about men and women. They have known it all from the
beginning, and it is a wonder to them. There is a friend of mine, an
angel, who is more wise in men's hearts than any one I know; and yet he
will say to me sometimes, 'I do not understand you,--you are wonderful.'
They like to find out all we are thinking. It is an endless pleasure to
them, just as it is to some of us to watch the people in the other
worlds."

"Do you mean--where we have come from?" said the little Pilgrim.

"Not always there. We in this city have been long separated from that
country, for all that we love are out of it."

"But not here?" the little Pilgrim cried again, with a little sorrow--a
pang that she knew was going to be put away--in her heart.

"But coming! coming!" said the painter, cheerfully; "and some were here
befo