Neither a man nor a boy ever thinks the age he has is exactly the best one—­he puts the right age a few years older or a few years younger than he is.  Then he makes that ideal age the general age of the heavenly people.  And he expects everybody to Stick at that age—­stand stock-still—­and expects them to enjoy it!—­Now just think of the idea of standing still in heaven!  Think of a heaven made up entirely of hoop-rolling, marble-playing cubs of seven years!—­or of awkward, diffident, sentimental immaturities of nineteen!—­or of vigorous people of thirty, healthy-minded, brimming with ambition, but chained hand and foot to that one age and its limitations like so many helpless galley-slaves!  Think of the dull sameness of a society made up of people all of one age and one set of looks, habits, tastes and feelings.  Think how superior to it earth would be, with its variety of types and faces and ages, and the enlivening attrition of the myriad interests that come into pleasant collision in such a variegated society.”

“Look here,” says I, “do you know what you’re doing?”

“Well, what am I doing?”

“You are making heaven pretty comfortable in one way, but you are playing the mischief with it in another.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Well,” I says, “take a young mother that’s lost her child, and—­”

“Sh!” he says.  “Look!”

It was a woman.  Middle-aged, and had grizzled hair.  She was walking slow, and her head was bent down, and her wings hanging limp and droopy; and she looked ever so tired, and was crying, poor thing!  She passed along by, with her head down, that way, and the tears running down her face, and didn’t see us.  Then Sandy said, low and gentle, and full of pity: 

“She’s hunting for her child!  No, found it, I reckon.  Lord, how she’s changed!  But I recognized her in a minute, though it’s twenty-seven years since I saw her.  A young mother she was, about twenty two or four, or along there; and blooming and lovely and sweet? oh, just a flower!  And all her heart and all her soul was wrapped up in her child, her little girl, two years old.  And it died, and she went wild with grief, just wild!  Well, the only comfort she had was that she’d see her child again, in heaven—­ ‘never more to part,’ she said, and kept on saying it over and over, ‘never more to part.’  And the words made her happy; yes, they did; they made her joyful, and when I was dying, twenty-seven years ago, she told me to find her child the first thing, and say she was coming—­’soon, soon, very soon, she hoped and believed!’”

“Why, it’s pitiful, Sandy.”

He didn’t say anything for a while, but sat looking at the ground, thinking.  Then he says, kind of mournful: 

“And now she’s come!”

“Well?  Go on.”