ht; 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."

"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.'
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