“I am not afraid of you; that was not true that you said!  You are one of the sisters, and you want to frighten me and make me repent!”

“You do repent,” the Pilgrim said.

“Oh,” cried the poor woman, “what has the like of you to do with me?  Now I look at you, I never saw any one that was like you before.  Don’t you hate me?—­don’t you loathe me?  I do myself.  It’s so ugly to go wrong.  I think now I would almost rather die and be done with it.  You will say that is because I am going to get better.  I feel a great deal better now.  Do you think I am going to get over it?  Oh, I am better!  I could get up out of bed and walk about.  Yes, but I am not in bed,—­where have you brought me?  Never mind, it is a fine air; I shall soon get well here.”

The Pilgrim was silent for a little, holding her hands.  And then she said,—­

“Tell me how you feel now,” in her soft voice.

The woman had sat up and was gazing round her.  “It is very strange,” she said; “it is all confused.  I think upon my mother and the old prayers I used to say.  For a long, long time I always said my prayers; but now I’ve got hardened, they say.  Oh, I was once as fresh as any one.  It all comes over me now.  I feel as if I were young again—­just come out of the country.  I am sure that I could walk.”

The little Pilgrim raised her up, holding her by her hands; and she stood and gazed round about her, making one or two doubtful steps.  She was very pale, and the light was dim; her eyes peered into it with a scared yet eager look.  She made another step, then stopped again.

“I am quite well,” she said.  “I could walk a mile.  I could walk any distance.  What was that you said?  Oh, I tell you I am better!  I am not going to die.”

“You will never, never die,” said the little Pilgrim; “are you not glad it is all over?  Oh, I was so glad!  And all the more you should be glad if you were so much afraid.”

But this woman was not glad.  She shrank away from her companion, then came close to her again, and gripped her with her hands.

“It is your—­fun,” she said, “or just to frighten me.  Perhaps you think it will do me no harm as I am getting so well; you want to frighten me to make me good.  But I mean to be good without that—­I do!—­I do!  When one is so near dying as I have been and yet gets better,—­for I am going to get better!  Yes! you know it as well as I.”

The little Pilgrim made no reply, but stood by, looking at her charge, not feeling that anything was given her to say,—­and she was so new to this work, that there was a little trembling in her, lest she should not do everything as she ought.  And the woman looked round with those anxious eyes gazing all about.  The light did not brighten as it had done when the Pilgrim herself first came to this place.  For one thing, they had remained quite close to the gate, which no doubt threw a shadow.  The woman looked at that, and then turned and looked into the dim morning, and did not know where she was, and her heart was confused and troubled.