the master would come presently, who had the chief responsibility.  “For we have not all the same genius,” he said, “and if I were to paint this head it would not have the gift of life as that one has; but to stand by and see him put it in, you cannot think what a happiness that is:  for one knows every touch, and just what effect it will have, though one could not do it one’s self; and it is a wonder and a delight perpetual that it should be done.”

The little Pilgrim looked up at him and said, “That is very beautiful to say.  And do you never wish to be like him—­to make the lovely, living faces as well as the other parts?”

“Is not this lovely too?” he said; and showed her how he had just put in a billowy robe, buoyed out with the wind, and sweeping down from the shoulders of a stately figure in such free and graceful folds that she would have liked to take it in her hand and feel the silken texture; and then he told her how absorbing it was to study the mysteries of colour and the differences of light.  “There is enough in that to make one happy,” he said.  “It is thought by some that we will all come to the higher point with work and thought; but that is not my feeling; and whether it is so or not what does it matter, for our Father makes no difference:  and all of us are necessary to everything that is done:  and it is almost more delight to see the master do it than to do it with one’s own hand.  For one thing, your own work may rejoice you in your heart, but always with a little trembling, because it is never so perfect as you would have it—­whereas in your master’s work you have full content, because his idea goes beyond yours, and as he makes every touch you can feel ’that is right—­that is complete—­that is just as it ought to be.’  Do you understand what I mean?” he said, turning to her with a smile.

“I understand it perfectly,” she cried, clasping her hands together with the delight of accord.  “Don’t you think that is one of the things that are so happy here? you understand at half a word.”

“Not everybody,” he said, and smiled upon her like a brother; “for we are not all alike even here.”

“Were you a painter?” she said, “in—­in the other—?”

“In the old times.  I was one of those that strove for the mastery, and sometimes grudged—­We remember these things at times,” he said gravely, “to make us more aware of the blessedness of being content.”

“It is long since then?” she said with some wistfulness; upon which he smiled again.

“So long,” he said, “that we have worn out most of our links to the world below.  We have all come away, and those who were after us for generations.  But you are a new-comer.”

“And are they all with you? are you all together? do you live as in the old time?”

Upon this the painter smiled, but not so brightly as before.

“Not as in the old time,” he said, “nor are they all here.  Some are 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.”