A Little Pilgrim | Page 6

She did not think of this because she was
not aware of the loss, and felt far too much herself to think that there
was another part of her being buried in the ground. From this she was
aroused by her companion asking her a question.
"Have you left many there?" she said.
"No one," said the little Pilgrim, "to whom I was the first on earth, but
they loved me all the same; and if I could only, only let them know--"
"But I left one to whom I was the first on earth," said the other with
tears in her beautiful eyes, "and oh, how glad I should be to be less
happy if he might be less sad!"
"And you cannot go? you cannot go to him and tell him? Oh, I wish--"
cried the little Pilgrim; but then she paused, for the wish died all away
in her heart into a tender love for this poor sorrowful man whom she
did not know. This gave her the sweetest pang she had ever felt, for she
knew that all was well, and yet was so sorry, and would have willingly
given up her happiness for his. All this the lady read in her eyes or her
heart, and loved her for it; and they took hands and were silent together,
thinking of those they had left, as we upon earth think of those who
have gone from us, but only with far more understanding, and far
greater love. "And have you never been able to do anything for him?"
our Pilgrim said.

Then the beautiful lady's face flushed all over with the most heavenly
warmth and light. Her smile ran over like the bursting out of the sun.
"Oh, I will tell you," she said. "There was a moment when he was very
sad and perplexed, not knowing what to think. There was something he
could not understand; nor could I understand, nor did I know what it
was until it was said to me, 'You may go and tell him.' And I went in
the early morning, before he was awake, and kissed him, and said it in
his ear. He woke up in a moment and understood, and everything was
clear to him. Afterwards I heard him say, 'It is true that the night brings
counsel. I had been troubled and distressed all day long, but in the
morning it was quite clear to me.' And the other answered, 'Your brain
was refreshed, and that made your judgment clear.' But they never
knew it was I! That was a great delight. The dear souls! they are so
foolish," she cried with the sweetest laughter that ran into tears. "One
cries because one is so happy; it is a silly old habit," she said.
"And you were not grieved, it did not hurt you--that he did not know--"
"Oh, not then; not then! I did not go to him for that. When you have
been here a little longer you will see the difference. When you go for
yourself, out of impatience, because it still seems to you that you must
know best, and they don't know you--then it strikes to your heart; but
when you go to help them--ah," she cried, "when he comes how much I
shall have to tell him! 'You thought it was sleep when it was I--when
you woke so fresh and clear it was I that kissed you; you thought it
your duty to me to be sad afterwards and were angry with yourself
because you had wronged me of the first thoughts of your
waking--when it was all me, all through!'"
"I begin to understand," said the little Pilgrim; "but why should they
not see us, and why should not we tell them? It would seem so natural.
If they saw us it would make them so happy, and so sure."
Upon this the lady shook her head.
"The worst of it is not that they are not sure--it is the parting. If this
makes us sorry here, how can they escape the sorrow of it even if they
saw us?--for we must be parted. We cannot go back to live with them,
or why should we have died? And then we must all live our lives--they
in their way, we in ours. We must not weigh them down, but only help
them when it is seen that there is need for it. All this we shall know
better by and by."

"You make it so clear, and your face is so bright," said our little Pilgrim
gratefully. "You must have known a great deal, and understood even
when you were in the world."
"I was as foolish as I could be," said the other, with her laugh that was
as