leisure of her mind.  Who were they? she wondered; but no doubt soon some of them would come this way, and she would see.  Then suddenly she seemed to hear, as if in answer to her question, some one say, “Those who are coming in are the people who have died on earth.”  “Died!” she said to herself aloud, with a wondering sense of the inappropriateness of the word, which almost came the length of laughter.  In this sweet air, with such a sense of life about, to suggest such an idea was almost ludicrous.  She was so occupied with this that she did not look round to see who the speaker might be.  She thought it over, amused, but with some new confusion of the mind.  Then she said, “Perhaps I have died too,” with a laugh to herself at the absurdity of the thought.

“Yes,” said the other voice, echoing that gentle laugh of hers, “you have died too.”

She turned round and saw another standing by her—­a woman, younger and fairer and more stately than herself, but of so sweet a countenance that our little Pilgrim felt no shyness, but recognised a friend at once.  She was more occupied looking at this new face, and feeling herself at once so much happier (though she had been so happy before) in finding a companion who could tell her what everything was, than in considering what these words might mean.  But just then once more the recollection of the four walls, with their little pictures hanging, and the window with its curtains drawn, seemed to come round her for a moment, so that her whole soul was in a confusion.  And as this vision slowly faded away (though she could not tell which was the vision, the darkened room or this lovely light), her attention came back to the words at which she had laughed, and at which the other had laughed as she repeated them.  Died?—­was it possible that this could be the meaning of it all.

“Died?” she said, looking with wonder in her companion’s face, which smiled back to her.  “But do you mean—?  You cannot mean—?  I have never been so well.  I am so strong.  I have no trouble anywhere.  I am full of life.”

The other nodded her beautiful head with a more beautiful smile, and the little Pilgrim burst out in a great cry of joy, and said—­

“Is this all?  Is it over?—­is it all over?  Is it possible that this can be all?”

“Were you afraid of it?” the other said.  There was a little agitation for the moment in her heart.  She was so glad, so relieved and thankful, that it took away her breath.  She could not get over the wonder of it.

“To think one should look forward to it so long, and wonder and be even unhappy trying to divine what it will be—­and this all!”

“Ah, but the angel was very gentle with you,” said the young woman.  “You were so tender and worn that he only smiled and took you sleeping.  There are other ways; but it is always wonderful to think it is over, as you say.”

The little Pilgrim could do nothing but talk of it, as one does after a very great event.  “Are you sure, quite sure, it is so?” she said.  “It would be dreadful to find it only a dream, to go to sleep again, and wake up—­there—­” This thought troubled her for a moment.  The vision of the bedchamber came back, but this time she felt it was only a vision.  “Were you afraid too?” she said, in a low voice.