“Then you know my mother?  Oh, and my dearest father too?”

“We all know each other,” the lady said with a smile.

“And you? did you come to meet me—­only out of kindness, though I do not know you?” the little Pilgrim said.

“I am nothing but an idler,” said the beautiful lady, “making acquaintance.  I am of little use as yet.  I was very hard worked before I came here, and they think it well that we should sit in the sun and take a little rest, and find things out.”

Then the little Pilgrim sat still and mused, and felt in her heart that she had found many things out.  What she had heard had been wonderful, and it was more wonderful still to be sitting here all alone, save for this lady, yet so happy and at ease.  She wanted to sing, she was so happy; but remembered that she was old; and had lost her voice; and then remembered again that she was no longer old, and perhaps had found it again.  And then it occurred to her to remember how she had learned to sing, and how beautiful her sister’s voice was, and how heavenly to hear her,—­which made her remember that this dear sister would be weeping, not singing, down where she had come from; and immediately the tears stood in her eyes.

“Oh,” she said, “I never thought we should cry when we came here.  I thought there were no tears in heaven.”

“Did you think, then, that we were all turned into stone?” cried the beautiful lady.  “It says God shall wipe away all tears from our faces, which is not like saying there are to be no tears.”

Upon which the little Pilgrim, glad that it was permitted to be sorry, though she was so happy, allowed herself to think upon the place she had so lately left.  And she seemed to see her little room again, with all the pictures hanging as she had left them, and the house darkened, and the dear faces she knew all sad and troubled, and to hear them saying over to each other all the little careless words she had said as if they were out of the Scriptures, and crying if any one but mentioned her name, and putting on crape and black dresses, and lamenting as if that which had happened was something very terrible.  She cried at this, and yet felt half inclined to laugh, but would not, because it would be disrespectful to those she loved.  One thing did not occur to her, and that was, that they would be carrying her body, which she had left behind her, away to the grave.  She did not think of this, because she was not aware of the loss, and felt far too much herself to think that there was another part of her being buried in the ground.  From this she was aroused by her companion asking her a question.

“Have you left many there?” she said.

“No one,” said the little Pilgrim, “to whom I was the first on earth; but they loved me all the same; and if I could only, only let them know—­”

“But I left one to whom I was the first on earth,” said the other, with tears in her beautiful eyes; “and oh, how glad I should be to be less happy if he might be less sad!”