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