She paused a little before she replied.

"I had children in love," she said, "but none that were born mine."

"It is the same," he said; "it is the same; and if one of them had
sinned against you, injured you, done wrong in any way, would you have
cast him off, or what would you have done?"

"Oh!" said the little Pilgrim again, with a vivid light of memory coming
into her face, which showed she had no need to think of this as a thing
that might have happened, but knew. "I brought him home. I nursed him
well again. I prayed for him night and day. Did you say cast him off?
when he had most need of me? then I never could have loved him," she
cried.

The painter nodded his head, and his hand with the pencil in it, for he
had turned from his picture to look at her.

"Then you think you love better than our Father?" he said: and turned to
his work, and painted a new fold in the robe, which looked as if a soft
air had suddenly blown into it, and not the touch of a skilful hand.

This made the Pilgrim tremble, as though in her ignorance she had done
something wrong. After that there came a great joy into her heart. "Oh,
how happy you have made me!" she cried. "I am glad with all my heart for
you and your son--" Then she paused a little and added, "But you said he
was still there."

"It is true: for the land of darkness is very confusing, they tell me,
for want of the true light, and our dear friends the angels are not