ed, it was there,--His eyes wet with pity, His
countenance shining with love. Whence came He? What did He in that place,
where love is not, where pity comes not?'

'Friend,' she cried, 'to seek you there!'

Her companion bowed his head in deep humbleness and joy. And again he
lifted his great voice and intoned his song of praise. The little Pilgrim
understood it, but by fragments,--a line that was more simple that came
here and there. And it praised the Lord that where the face of the Father
was hidden; and where love was not, nor compassion, nor brother had pity
on brother, nor friend knew the face of friend; and all succor was
stayed, and every help forbidden,--yet still in the depths of the
darkness and in the heart of the silence, He who could not forget nor
forsake was there. The voice of the singer was like that of one of the
great angels, and many of the inhabitants of the blessed country began to
appear, gathering in crowds to hear this great music, as the little
sister thought; and she herself listened with all her heart, wondering
and seeing on the faces of those dear friends whom she did not know an
expectation and a hope which were strange to her, though she could always
understand their love and their joy.

But in the middle of this great song there came again another sound to
her ear,--a sound which pierced through the music like lightning through
the sky, though it was but the cry of one distraught and fainting; a cry
out of the depths not even seeking help, a cry of distress too terrible
to be borne. Though it was scarcely louder than a sigh, she heard it
through all the music, and turned and flew to the edge of the precipice
whence it came. And immediately the darkness seemed to move as with a
pulse in a great throb, and something came through the wind with a rush,
as if part of the mountain had fallen--and lo! at her feet lay one who
had flung himself forward, his arms stretched out, his face to the
ground, as if he had seized and grasped in an agony the very soil. He lay
there, half in the light and half in the shadow, gripping the rocks with
his hands, burrowing into the cool herbage above and the mountain
flowers; clinging, catching hold, despairing, yet seizing everything he
could grasp,--the tender grass, the rolling stones. The little Pilgrim
flung herself down upon her knees by his side, and grasped his arm to
help, and cried aloud for aid; and the song of the singer ceased, and
there was sile