‘Look again,’ said the guide.

The little Pilgrim shrank into a crevice of the rock, and uncovering her eyes, gazed into the darkness; and because her nature was soft and timid there came into her mind a momentary fear.  Her heart flew to the Father’s footstool, and cried out to Him, not any question or prayer, but only ‘Father, Father!’ and this made her stand erect, and strengthened her eyes, so that the gloom even of hell could no more make her afraid.  Her guide stood beside with a steadfast countenance, which was grave, yet full of a solemn light.  And then all at once he lifted up his voice, which was sonorous and sweet like the sound of an organ, and uttered a shout so great and resounding that it seemed to come back in echoes from every hollow and hill.  What he said the little Pilgrim could not understand; but when the echoes had died away and silence followed, something came up through the gloom,—­a sound that was far, far away, and faint in the long distance; a voice that sounded no more than an echo.  When he who had called out heard it, he turned to the little Pilgrim with eyes that were liquid with love and pity; ‘Listen,’ he said, ’there is some one on the way.’

‘Can we help them?’ cried the little Pilgrim; her heart bounded forward like a bird.  She had no fear.  The darkness and the horrible way seemed as nothing to her.  She stretched out her arms as if she would have seized the traveller and dragged him up into the light.

He who was by her side shook his head, but with a smile.  ’We can but wait,’ he said.  ’It is forbidden that any one should help; for this is too terrible and strange to be touched even by the hands of angels.  It is like nothing that you know.’

‘I have been taught many things,’ said the little Pilgrim, humbly.  ’I have been taken back to the dear earth, where I saw the judgment-seat, and the pleaders who spoke, and the man who was the judge, and how each is judge for himself.’

‘You have seen the place of hope,’ said her guide, ’where the Father is and the Son, and where no man is left to his own ways.  But there is another country, where there is no voice either from God or from good spirits, and where those who have refused are left to do as seems good in their own eyes.’

‘I have read,’ said the little Pilgrim, with a sob, ’of one who went from city to city and found no rest.’

Her guide bowed his head very gravely in assent.  ’They go from place to place,’ he said, ’if haply they might find one in which it is possible to live.  Whether it is order or whether it is license, it is according to their own will.  They try all things, ever looking for something which the soul may endure.  And new cities are founded from time to time, and a new endeavor ever and ever to live, only to live.  For even when happiness fails and content, and work is vanity and effort is naught, it is something if a man can but endure to live.’