“And will they all get safe at the last? and even that great spirit, he that fell from heaven—­”

The painter shook his head and said, “It is not permitted to you and me to know such great things.  Perhaps the wise will tell you if you ask them:  but for me I ask the Father in my heart and listen to what he says.”

“That is best!” the little Pilgrim said; and she asked the Father in her heart:  and there came all over her such a glow of warmth and happiness that her soul was satisfied.  She looked in the painter’s face and laughed for joy.  And he put out his hands as if welcoming some one, and his countenance shone; and he said,—­

“My son had a great gift.  He was a master born, though it was not given to me.  He shall paint it all for us so that the heart shall rejoice; and you will come again and see.”

After that it happened to the little Pilgrim to enter into another great palace where there were many people reading, and some sitting at their desks and writing, and some consulting together, with many great volumes stretched out open upon the tables.  One of these who was seated alone looked up as she paused wondering at him, and smiled as every one did, and greeted her with such a friendly tone that the Pilgrim, who always had a great desire to know, came nearer to him and looked at the book, then begged his pardon, and said she did not know that books were needed here.  And then he told her that he was one of the historians of the city where all the records of the world were kept, and that it was his business to work upon the great history, and to show what was the meaning of the Father in everything that had happened, and how each event came in its right place.

“And do you get it out of books?” she asked; for she was not learned, nor wise, and knew but little, though she always loved to know.

“The books are the records,” he said; “and there are many here that were never known to us in the old days; for the angels love to look into these things, and they can tell us much, for they saw it; and in the great books they have kept there is much put down that was never in the books we wrote, for then we did not know.  We found out about the kings and the state, and tried to understand what great purposes they were serving; but even these we did not know, for those purposes were too great for us, not knowing the end from the beginning, and the hearts of men were too great for us.  We comprehended the evil sometimes, but never fathomed the good.  And how could we know the lesser things which were working out God’s way? for some of these even the angels did not know; and it has happened to me that our Lord himself has come in sometimes to tell me of one that none of us had discovered.”

“Oh,” said the little Pilgrim, with tears in her eyes, “I should like to have been that one!—­that was not known even to the angels, but only to Himself!”

The historian smiled.  “It was my brother,” he said.