Soon she found herself in a singular place.  She was traversing a vast plain.  No trees were visible, save those which skirted the distant horizon, and on their broad tops rested wreaths of golden clouds.  Before her was a female, who was journeying towards that region of light.  Little children were about her, now in her arms, now running by her side, and as they travelled, she occupied herself in caring for them.  She taught them how to place their little feet—­she gave them timely warnings of the pit-falls—­she gently lifted them over the stumbling-blocks.  When they were weary, she soothed them by singing of that brighter land, which she kept ever in view, and towards which she seemed hastening with her little flock.  But what was most remarkable was, that, all unknown to her, she was constantly watched by two angels, who reposed on two golden clouds which floated above her.  Before each was a golden book, and a pen of gold.  One angel, with mild and loving eyes, peered constantly over her right shoulder—­another kept as strict watch over her left.  Not a deed, not a word, not a look, escaped their notice.  When a good deed, word, look, went from her, the angel over the right shoulder with a glad smile, wrote it down in his book; when an evil, however trivial, the angel over the left shoulder recorded it in his book—­then with sorrowful eyes followed the pilgrim until he observed penitence for the wrong, upon which he dropped a tear on the record, and blotted it out, and both angels rejoiced.

To the looker-on, it seemed that the traveller did nothing which was worthy of such careful record.  Sometimes she did but bathe the weary feet of her little children, but the angel over the right shoulder—­wrote it down.  Sometimes she did but patiently wait to lure back a little truant who had turned his face away from the distant light, but the angel over the right shoulder—­wrote it down.  Sometimes she did but soothe an angry feeling or raise a drooping eye-lid, or kiss away a little grief; but the angel over the right shoulder—­wrote it down.

Sometimes, her eye was fixed so intently on that golden horizon, and she became so eager to make progress thither, that the little ones, missing her care, did languish or stray.  Then it was that the angel over the left shoulder, lifted his golden pen, and made the entry, and followed her with sorrowful eyes, until he could blot it out.  Sometimes she seemed to advance rapidly, but in her haste the little ones had fallen back, and it was the sorrowing angel who recorded her progress.  Sometimes so intent was she to gird up her loins and have her lamp trimmed and burning, that the little children wandered away quite into forbidden paths, and it was the angel over the left shoulder who recorded her diligence.

Now the observer as she looked, felt that this was a faithful and true record, and was to be kept to that journey’s end.  The strong clasps of gold on those golden books, also impressed her with the conviction that, when they were closed, it would only be for a future opening.