still upon the way, and of some we have no certainty, only news from
time to time. The angels are very good to us. They never miss an
occasion to bring us news; for they go everywhere, you know."
"Yes," said the little Pilgrim, though indeed she had not known it till
now; but it seemed to her as if it had come to her mind by nature and
she had never needed to be told.
"They are so tender-hearted," the painter said; "and more than that,
they are very curious about men and women. They have known it all from
the beginning, and it is a wonder to them. There is a friend of mine, an
angel, who is more wise in men's hearts than any one I know; and yet he
will say to me sometimes, 'I do not understand you--you are wonderful.'
They like to find out all we are thinking. It is an endless pleasure to
them, just as it is to some of us to watch the people in the other
worlds."
"Do you mean--where we have come from?" said the little Pilgrim.
"Not always there. We in this city have been long separated from that
country, for all that we love are out of it."
"But not here?" the little Pilgrim cried again with a little sorrow--a
pang that she had thought could never touch her again--in her heart.
"But coming! coming!" said the painter, cheerfully; "and some were here
before us, and some have arrived since. They are everywhere."
"But some in trouble--some in trouble!" she cried, with the tears in her
eyes.
"We suppose so," he said gravely; "for some are in that place which once
was called among us the place of despair."
"You mean--" and though the little Pilgrim had been made free of fear,
at that word which she would not speak, she trembled, and the light grew
dim in her eyes.
"Well!" said her new friend, "and what then? The Father sees through and
through it as He does here: they cannot escape Him: so that there is
Love near them always. I have a son," he said, then sighed a little, but
smiled again, "who is there."
The little Pilgrim at this clasped her hands with a piteous cry.
"Nay, nay," he said, "little sister; my friend I was telling you of, the
angel, brought me news of him just now. Indeed there was news of him
through all the city. Did you not hear all the bells ringing? But
perhaps that was before you came. The angels who know me best came one
after another to tell me, and our Lord himself came to wish me joy. My
son had found the way."
The little Pilgrim did not understand this, and almost thought that the
painter must be mistaken or dreaming. She looked at him very anxiously
and said--
"I thought that those unhappy--never came out any more."
The painter smiled at her in return, and said--
"Had you children in the old time?"
She paused a little before she replied.
"I had children in love," she said, "but none that were born mine."
"It is the same," he said; "it is the same; and if one of them had
sinned against you, injured you, done wrong in any way, would you have
cast him off, or what would you have done?"
"Oh!" said the little Pilgrim again, with a vivid light of memory coming
into her face, which showed she had no need to think of this as a thing
that might have happened, but knew. "I brought him home. I nursed him
well again. I prayed for him night and day. Did you say cast him off?
when he had most need of me? then I never could have loved him," she
cried.
The painter nodded his head, and his hand with the pencil in it, for he
had turned from his picture to look at her.
"Then you think you love better than our Father?" he said: and turned to
his work, and painted a new fold in the robe, which looked as if a soft
air had suddenly blown into it, and not the touch of a skilful hand.
This made the Pilgrim tremble, as though in her ignorance she had done
something wrong. After that there came a great joy into her heart. "Oh,
how happy you have made me!" she cried. "I am glad with all my heart for
you and your son--" Then she paused a little and added, "But you said he
was still there."
"It is true: for the land of darkness is very confusing, they tell me,
for want of the true light, and our dear friends the angels are not
permitted to help: but if one follows them, that shows the way. You may
be in that land yet on your way hither. It was very hard to understand
at first," said the painter; "there are some sketches I could show you.
No one has ever made a picture of it, though many have tried; but I
could show you some sketches--if you wish to see."
To this the little Pilgrim's look was so plain an answer that the
painter laid down his pallet and his brush, and left his work, to show
them to her as he had promised. They went down from the balcony and
along the street until they came to one of the great palaces, where
many were coming and going. Here they walked through some vast halls,
where students were working at easels, doing every kind of beautiful
work: some painting pictures, some preparing drawings, planning houses
and palaces. The Pilgrim would have liked to pause at every moment to
see one lovely thing or another, but the painter walked on steadily till
he came to a room which was full of sketches, some of them like pictures
in little, with many figures--some of them only a representation of a
flower, or the wing of a bird. "These are all the master's," he said;
"sometimes the sight of them will be enough to put something great into
the mind of another. In this corner are the sketches I told you of."
There' were two of them hanging together upon the wall, and at first it
seemed to the little Pilgrim as if they represented the flames and fire
of which she had read, and this made her shudder for the moment. But
then she saw that it was a red light like a stormy sunset, with masses
of clouds in the sky, and a low sun very fiery and dazzling, which no
doubt to a hasty glance must have looked, with its dark shadows and high
lurid lights, like the fires of the bottomless pit. But when you looked
down you saw the reality what it was. The country that lay beneath was
full of tropical foliage, but with many stretches of sand and dry
plains, and in the foreground was a town, that looked very prosperous
and crowded, though the figures were very minute, the subject being so
great; but no one to see it would have taken it for anything but a busy
and wealthy place, in a thunderous atmosphere, with a storm coming on.
In the next there was a section of a street with a great banqueting hall
open to the view, and many people sitting about the table. You could see
that there was a great deal of laughter and conversation going on, some
very noisy groups, but others that sat more quietly in corners and
conversed, and some who sang, and every kind of entertainment. The
little Pilgrim was very much astonished to see this, and turned to the
painter, who answered her directly, though she had not spoken. "We used
to think differently once. There are some who are there and do not know
it. They think only it is the old life over again, but always worse, and
they are led on in the ways of evil: but they do not feel the punishment
until they begin to find out where they are and to struggle, and wish
for other things."
The little Pilgrim felt her heart beat very wildly while she looked at
this, and she thought upon the rich man in the parable, who, though he
was himself in torment, prayed that his brother might be saved, and she
said to herself, "Our dear Lord would never leave him there who could
think of his brother when he was himself in such a strait." And when she
looked at the painter he smiled upon her, and nodded his head. Then he
led her to the other corner of the room where there were other
pictures. One of them was of a party seated round a table and an angel
looking on. The angel had the aspect of a traveller, as if he were
passing quickly by, and had but paused a moment to look, when one of the
men glancing up suddenly saw him. The picture was dim, but the startled
look upon this man's face, and the sorrow on the angel's, appeared out
of the misty background with such truth that the tears came into the
little Pilgrim's eyes, and she said in her heart, "Oh, that I could go
to him and help him!" The other sketches were dimmer and dimmer. You
seemed to see out of the darkness gleaming lights, and companies of
revellers, out of which here and there was one trying to escape. And
then the wide plains in the night, and the white vision of the angel in
the distance, and here and there by different paths a fugitive striving
to follow. "Oh, sir," said the little Pilgrim, "how did you learn to do
it? You have never been there."
"It was the master, not I; and I cannot tell you if he has ever been
there. When the Father has given you that gift, you can go to many
places, without leaving the one where you are. And then he has heard
what the angels say."
"And will they all get safe at the last? and even that great spirit, he
that fell from Heaven--"
The painter shook his head, and said, "It is not permitted to you and me
to know such great things. Perhaps the wise will tell you if you ask
them: but for me I ask the Father in my heart and listen to what He
says."
"That is best!" the little Pilgrim said; and she asked the Father in her
heart: and there came all over her such a glow of warmth and happiness
that her soul was satisfied. She looked in the painter's face and
laughed for joy. And he put out his hands as if welcoming some one, and
his countenance shone; and he said--
"My son had a great gift. He was a master born, though it was not given
to me. He shall paint it all for us so that the heart shall rejoice; and
you will come again and see."
After that it happened to the little Pilgrim to enter into another great
palace where there were many people reading, and some sitting at their
desks and writing, and some consulting together, with many great volumes
stretched out open upon the tables. One of these who was seated alone
looked up as she paused, wondering at him, and smiled as every one did,
and greeted her with such a friendly tone that the Pilgrim, who always
had a great desire to know, came nearer to him and looked at the book,
then begged his pardon, and said she did not know that books were needed
here. And then he told her that he was one of the historians of the city
where all the records of the world were kept, and that it was his
business to work upon the great history, and to show what was the
meaning of the Father in everything that had happened, and how each
event came in its right place.
"And do you get it out of books?" she asked; for she was not learned,
nor wise, and knew but little, though she always loved to know.
"The books are the records," he said; "and there are many here that were
never known to us in the old days; for the angels love to look into
these things, and they can tell us much, for they saw it; and in the
great books they have kept there is much put down that was never in the
books we wrote; for then we did not know. We found out about the kings
and the state, and tried to understand what great purposes they were
serving; but even these we did not know, for those purposes were too
great for us, not knowing the end from the beginning; and the hearts of
men were too great for us. We comprehended the evil sometimes, but never
fathomed the good. And how could we know the lesser things which were
working out God's way? for some of these even the angels did not know;
and it has happened to me that our Lord Himself has come in sometimes to
tell me of one that none of us had discovered."
"Oh," said the little Pilgrim, with tears in her eyes, "I should like to
have been that one!--that was not known even to the angels, but only to
Himself!"
The historian smiled. "It was my brother," he said.
The Pilgrim looked at him with great wonder. "Your brother, and you did
not know him!"
And then he turned over the pages and showed her where the story was.
"You know," he said, "that we who live here are not of your time, but
have lived and lived here till the old life is far away and like a
dream. There were great tumults and fightings in our time, and it was
settled by the prince of the place that our town was to be abandoned,
and all the people left to the mercy of an enemy who had no mercy. But
every day as he rode out he saw at one door a child, a little fair boy,
who sat on the steps, and sang his little song like a bird. This child
was never afraid of anything--when the horses pranced past him, and the
troopers pushed him aside, he looked up into their faces and smiled. And
when he had anything, a piece of bread, or an apple, or a plaything, he
shared it with his playmates; and his little face, and his pretty voice,
and all his pleasant ways, made that corner bright. He was like a flower
growing there; everybody smiled that saw him."
"I have seen such a child," the little Pilgrim said.
"But we made no account of him," said the historian. "The Lord of the
place came past him every day, and always saw him singing in the sun by
his father's door. And it was a wonder then, and it has been a wonder
ever since, why, having resolved upon it, that prince did not abandon
the town, which would have changed all his fortune after. Much had been
made clear to me since I began to study, but not this: till the Lord
Himself came to me and told me. The prince looked at the child till he
loved him, and he reflected how many children there were like this that
would be murdered, or starved to death, and he could not give up the
little singing boy to the sword. So he remained; and the town was saved,
and he became a great king. It was so secret that even the angels did
not know it. But without that child the history would not have been
complete."
"And is he here?" the little Pilgrim said.
"Ah," said the historian, "that is more strange still; for that which
saved him was also to his harm. He is not here. He is--elsewhere."
The little Pilgrim's face grew sad; but then she remembered what she had
been told.
"But you know," she said, "that he is coming?"
"I know that our Father will never forsake him, and that everything
that is being accomplished in him is well."
"Is it well to suffer? Is it well to live in that dark stormy country?
Oh, that they were all here, and happy like you!"
He shook his head a little and said--
"It was a long time before I got here; and as for suffering that matters
little. You get experience by it. You are more accomplished and fit for
greater work in the end. It is not for nothing that we are permitted to
wander: and sometimes one goes to the edge of despair--"
She looked at him with such wondering eyes that he answered her without
a word.
"Yes," he said, "I have been there."
And then it seemed to her that there was something in his eyes which she
had not remarked before. Not only the great content that was everywhere,
but a deeper light, and the air of a judge who knew both good and evil,
and could see both sides, and understood all, both to love and to hate.
"Little sister," he said, "you have never wandered far--it is not
needful for such as you. Love teaches you, and you need no more; but
when we have to be trained for an office like this, to make the way of
the Lord clear through all the generations, reason is that we should see
everything, and learn all that man is and can be. These things are too
deep for us; we stumble on, and know not till after. But now to me it is
all clear."
She looked at him again and again while he spoke, and it seemed to her
that she saw in him such great knowledge and tenderness as made her
glad; and how he could understand the follies that men had done, and
fathom what real meaning was in them, and disentangle all the threads.
He smiled as she gazed at him, and answered as if she had spoken.
"What was evil perishes, and what was good remains; almost everywhere
there is a little good. We could not understand all if we had not seen
all and shared all."
"And the punishment too," she said, wondering more and more.
He smiled so joyfully that it was like laughter.
"Pain is a great angel," he said. "The reason we hated him in the old
days was because he tended to death and decay; but when it is towards
life he leads, we fear him no more. The welcome thing of all in the land
of darkness is when you see him first and know who he is: for by this
you are aware that you have found the way."
The little Pilgrim did nothing but question with her anxious eyes, for
this was such a wonder to her, and she could not understand. But he only
sat musing with a smile over the things he remembered. And at last he
said--
"If this is so interesting to you, you shall read it all in another
place, in the room where we have laid up our own experiences, in order
to serve for the history afterwards. But we are still busy upon the work
of the earth. There is always something new to be discovered. And it is
essential for the whole world that the chronicle should be full. I am in
great joy because it was but just now that our Lord told me about that
child. Everything was imperfect without him, but now it is clear."
"You mean your brother? And you are happy though you are not sure if he
is happy?" the little Pilgrim said.
"It is not to be happy that we live," said he; and then, "We are all
happy so soon as we have found the way."
She would have asked him more, but that he was called to a consultation
with some others of his kind, and had to leave her, waving his hand to
her with a tender kindness, which went to her heart. She looked after
him with great respect, and almost awe; for it seemed to her that a man
who had been in the land of darkness, and made his way out of it, must
be more wonderful than any other. She looked round for a little upon
the great library, full of all the books that had ever been written, and
where people were doing their work, examining and reading and making
extracts, every one with looks of so much interest, that she almost
envied them--though it was a generous delight in seeing people so happy
in their occupation, and a desire to associate herself somehow in it,
rather than any grudging of their satisfaction that was in her mind. She
went about all the courts of this palace alone, and everywhere saw the
same work going on, and everywhere met the same kind looks. Even when
the greatest of all looked up from his work and saw her, he would give
her a friendly greeting and a smile; and nobody was too wise to lend an
ear to the little visitor, or to answer her questions. And this was how
it was that she began to talk to another, who was seated at a great
table with many more, and who drew her to him by something that was in
his looks, though she could not have told what it was. It was not that
he was kinder than the rest, for they were all kind. She stood by him a
little, and saw how he worked and would take something from one book and
something from another, putting them ready for use. And it did not seem
any trouble to do this work, but only pleasure, and the very pen in his
hand was like a winged thing, as if it loved to write. When he saw her
watching him, he looked up and showed her the beautiful book out of
which he was copying, which was all illuminated with lovely pictures.
"This is one of the volumes of the great history," he said. "There are
some things in it which are needed for another, and it is a pleasure to
work at it. If you will come here you will be able to see the page while
I write."
Then the little Pilgrim asked him some questions about the pictures, and
he answered her, describing and explaining them; for they were in the
middle of the history, and she did not understand what it was. When she
said, "I ought not to trouble you, for you are busy," he smiled so
kindly, that she smiled too for pleasure. And he said--
"There is no trouble here. When we are not allowed to work, as sometimes
happens, that makes us not quite so happy, but it is very seldom that it
happens so."
"Is it for punishment?" she said.
And then he laughed out with a sound which made all the others look up
smiling; and if they had not all looked so tenderly at her, as at a
child who has made such a mistake as it is pretty for the child to make,
she would have feared she had said something wrong; but she only laughed
at herself too, and blushed a little, knowing that she was not wise: and
to put her at her ease again, he turned the leaf and showed her other
pictures, and the story which went with them, from which he was copying
something. And he said--
"This is for another book, to show how the grace of the Father was
beautiful in some homes and families. It is not the great history, but
connected with it: and there are many who love that better than the
story which is more great."
Then the Pilgrim looked in his face and said--
"What I want most is, to know about your homes here."
"It is all home here," he said, and smiled; and then, as he met her
wistful looks, he went on to tell her that he and his brothers were not
always there. "We have all our occupations," he said, "and sometimes I
am sent to inquire into facts that have happened, of which the record is
not clear; for we must omit nothing; and sometimes we are told to rest
and take in new strength; and sometimes--"
"But oh, forgive me," cried the little Pilgrim, "you had some who were
more dear to you than all the world in the old time?"
And the others all looked up again at the question, and looked at her
with tender eyes, and said to the man whom she questioned, "Speak!"
He made a little pause before he spoke, and he looked at one here and
there, and called to them--
"Patience, brother," and "Courage, brother." And then he said, "Those
whom we loved best are nearly all with us; but some have not yet come."
"Oh," said the little Pilgrim, "but how then do you bear it, to be
parted so long--so long?"
Then one of those to whom the first speaker had called out "Patience"
rose, and came to her smiling; and he said--
"I think every hour that perhaps she will come, and the joy will be so
great, that thinking of that makes the waiting short: and nothing here
is long, for it never ends; and it will be so wonderful to hear her tell
how the Father has guided her, that it will be a delight to us all; and
she will be able to explain many things, not only for us, but for all;
and we love each other so, that this separation is as nothing in
comparison with what is to come."
It was beautiful to hear this, but it was not what the little Pilgrim
expected, for she thought they would have told her of the homes to which
they all returned when their work was over, and a life which was like
the life of the old time; but of this they said nothing, only looking at
her with smiling eyes, as at the curious questions of a child. And there
were many other things she would have asked, but refrained when she
looked at them, feeling as if she did not yet understand; when one of
them broke forth suddenly in a louder voice, and said--
"The little sister knows only the little language and the beginning of
days. She has not learned the mysteries, and what Love is, and what life
is."
And another cried, "It is sweet to hear it again;" and they all gathered
round her with tender looks, and began to talk to each other, and tell
her, as men will tell of the games of their childhood, of things that
happened, which were half forgotten, in the old time.