comfort some other stranger. They were dear friends always, and met
often, but not again in the same way.

When she was thus left alone again, the little Pilgrim sat still upon the
grassy mound, quite tranquil and happy, without wishing to move. There
was such a sense of well-being in her, that she liked to sit there and
look about her, and breathe the delightful air, like the air of a summer
morning, without wishing for anything.

"How idle I am!" she said to herself, in the very words she had often
used before she died; but then she was idle from weakness, and now from
happiness. She wanted for nothing. To be alive was so sweet. There was a
great deal to think about in what she had heard, but she did not even
think about that, only resigned herself to the delight of sitting there
in the sweet air and being happy. Many people were coming and going, and
they all knew her, and smiled upon her, and those who were at a distance
would wave their hands. This did not surprise her at all, for though she
was a stranger, she too felt that she knew them all; but that they should
be so kind was a delight to her which words could not tell. She sat and
mused very sweetly about all that had been told her, and wondered whether
she too might go sometimes, and with a kiss and a whisper clear up
something that was dark in the mind of some one who loved her. "I that
never was clever!" she said to herself, with a smile. And chiefly she
thought of a friend whom she loved, who was often in great perplexity,
and did not know how to guide herself amid the difficulties of the world.

The little Pilgrim half laughed with delight, and then half cried with
longing to go, as the beautiful lady had done, and make something clear
that had been dark before, to this friend. As she was thinking what a
pleasure it would be, some one came up to her, crossing over the flowery