“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?”