We went down the hill with all the speed we might, and, I will confess it, with the darkest dismay I have ever experienced tugging at my heart.  We were soon at the foot of the enormous structure.  Amroth knocked at the gate, a low door, adorned with some vague and ghastly sculptures, things like worms and huddled forms drearily intertwined.  The door opened, and revealed a fiery and smouldering light within.  High up in the tower a great wheel whizzed and shivered, and moving shadows crossed and recrossed the firelit walls.

But the figure that came out to us—­how shall I describe him?  It was the most beautiful and gracious sight of all that I saw in my pilgrimage.  He was a man of tall stature, with snow-white, silvery hair and beard, dressed in a dark cloak with a gleaming clasp of gold.  But for all his age he had a look of immortal youth.  His clear and piercing eye had a glance of infinite tenderness, such as I had never conceived.  There were many lines upon his brow and round his eyes, but his complexion was as fresh as that of a child, and he stepped as briskly as a youth.  We bowed low to him, and he reached out his hands, taking Amroth’s hand and mine in each of his.  His touch had a curious thrill, the hand that held mine being firm and smooth and wonderfully warm.

“Well, my children,” he said in a clear, youthful voice, “I am glad to see you, because there are few who come hither willingly; and the old and weary are cheered by the sight of those that are young and strong.  Amroth I know.  But who are you, my child?  You have not been among us long.  Have you found your work and place here yet?” I told him my story in a few words, and he smiled indulgently.  “There is nothing like being at work,” he said.  “Even my business here, which seems sad enough to most people, must be done; and I do it very willingly.  Do not be frightened, my child,” he said to me suddenly, drawing me nearer to him, and folding my arm beneath his own.  “It is only on earth that we are frightened of pain; it spoils our poor plans, it makes us fretful and miserable, it brings us into the shadow of death.  But for all that, as Amroth knows, it is the best and most fruitful of all the works that the Father does for man, and the thing dearest to His heart.  We cannot prosper till we suffer, and suffering leads us very swiftly into joy and peace.  Indeed this Tower of Pain, as it is called, is in fact nothing but the Tower of Love.  Not until love is touched with pain does it become beautiful, and the joy that comes through pain is the only real thing in the world.  Of course, when my great engine here sends a thrill into a careless life, it comes as a dark surprise; but then follow courage and patience and wonder, and all the dear tendance of Love.  I have borne it all myself a hundred times, and I shall bear it again if the Father wills it.  But when you leave me here, do not think of me as of one who works, grim and indifferent, wrecking lives and