“And you cannot go? you cannot go to him and tell him?  Oh, I wish,” cried the little Pilgrim; but then she paused, for the wish died all away in her heart into a tender love for this poor, sorrowful man whom she did not know.  This gave her the sweetest pang she had ever felt, for she knew that all was well, and yet was so sorry, and would have willingly given up her happiness for his.  All this the lady read in her eyes or her heart, and loved her for it; and they took hands and were silent together, thinking of those they had left, as we upon earth think of those who have gone from us, but only with far more understanding and far greater love.  “And have you never been able to do anything for him?” our Pilgrim said.

Then the beautiful lady’s face flushed all over with the most heavenly warmth and light.  Her smile ran over like the bursting out of the sun.

“Oh, I will tell you,” she said.  “There was a moment when he was very sad and perplexed, not knowing what to think; there was something he could not understand.  Nor could I understand, nor did I know what it was, until it was said to me, ‘You may go and tell him.’  And I went in the early morning before he was awake, and kissed him, and said it in his ear.  He woke up in a moment, and understood, and everything was clear to him.  Afterward I heard him say, ’It is true that the night brings counsel.  I had been troubled and distressed all day long, but in the morning it was quite clear to me.’  And the other answered, ’Your brain was refreshed, and that made your judgment clear.’  But they never knew it was I!  That was a great delight.  The dear souls, they are so foolish,” she cried, with the sweetest laughter, that ran into tears.  “One cries because one is so happy; it is just a silly old habit,” she said.

“And you were not grieved—­it did not hurt you—­that he did not know—­”

“Oh, not then, not then!  I did not go to him for that.  When you have been here a little longer, you will see the difference.  When you go for yourself, out of impatience, because it still seems to you that you must know best, and they don’t know you, then it strikes to your heart; but when you go to help them,—­ah,” she cried, “when he comes, how much I shall have to tell him!  ’You thought it was sleep, when it was I; when you woke so fresh and clear, it was I that kissed you; you thought it your duty to me to be sad afterward, and were angry with yourself because you had wronged me of the first thoughts of your waking—­when it was all me, all through!’”

“I begin to understand,” said the little Pilgrim.  “But why should they not see us, and why should not we tell them?  It would seem so natural.  If they saw us, it would make them so happy and so sure.”

Upon this the lady shook her head.

“The worst of it is not that they are not sure, it is the parting.  If this makes us sorry here, how can they escape the sorrow of it, even if they saw us?—­for we must be parted.  We cannot go back to live with them, or why should we have died?  And then we must all live our lives, they in their way, we in ours.  We must not weigh them down, but only help them when it is seen that there is need for it.  All this we shall know better by and by.”