“Where are we?” she said.  “I do not know where it is; they must have brought me here in my sleep,—­where are we?  How strange to bring a sick woman away out of her room in her sleep!  I suppose it was the new doctor,” she went on, looking very closely in the little Pilgrim’s face; then paused, and drawing a long breath, said softly, “It has done me good.  It is better air—­it is—­a new kind of cure!”

But though she spoke like this, she did not convince herself; her eyes were wild with wondering and fear.  She gripped the Pilgrim’s arm more and more closely, and trembled, leaning upon her.

“Why don’t you speak to me?” she said; “why don’t you tell me?  Oh, I don’t know how to live in this place!  What do you do?—­how do you speak?  I am not fit for it.  And what are you?  I never saw you before, nor any one like you.  What do you want with me?  Why are you so kind to me?  Why—­why—­”

And here she went off into a murmur of questions.  Why? why? always holding fast by the little Pilgrim, always gazing round her, groping as it were in the dimness with her great eyes.

“I have come because our dear Lord who is our Brother sent me to meet you, and because I love you,” the little Pilgrim said.

“Love me!” the woman cried, throwing up her hands.  “But no one loves me; I have not deserved it.”  Here she grasped her close again with a sudden clutch, and cried out, “If this is what you say, where is God?”

“Are you afraid of him?” the little Pilgrim said.  Upon which the woman trembled so, that the Pilgrim trembled too with the quivering of her frame; then loosed her hold, and fell upon her face, and cried,—­

“Hide me! hide me!  I have been a great sinner.  Hide me, that he may not see me;” and with one hand she tried to draw the Pilgrim’s dress as a veil between her and something she feared.

“How should I hide you from him who is everywhere? and why should I hide you from your Father?” the little Pilgrim said.  This she said almost with indignation, wondering that any one could put more trust in her, who was no better than a child, than in the Father of all.  But then she said, “Look into your heart, and you will see you are not so much afraid as you think.  This is how you have been accustomed to frighten yourself.  But now look into your heart.  You thought you were very ill at first, but not now and you think you are afraid; but look into your heart—­”

There was a silence; and then the woman raised her head with a wonderful look, in which there was amazement and doubt, as if she had heard some joyful thing, but dared not yet believe that it was true.  Once more she hid her face in her hands, and once more raised it again.  Her eyes softened; a long sigh or gasp, like one taking breath after drowning, shook her breast.  Then she said, “I think—­that is true.  But if I am not afraid, it is because I am—­bad.  It is because I am hardened.  Oh, should not I fear him who can send me away into—­the lake that burns—­into the pit—­” And here she gave a great cry, but held the little Pilgrim all the while with her eyes, which seemed to plead and ask for better news.