such a sense of life about, to suggest such an idea was almost
ludicrous. She was so occupied with this that she did not look round to
see who the speaker might be. She thought it over, amused, but with some
new confusion of the mind. Then she said, "Perhaps I have died too,"
with a laugh to herself at the absurdity of the thought.

"Yes," said the other voice, echoing that gentle laugh of hers, "you
have died too."

She turned round and saw another standing by her--a woman, younger and
fairer and more stately than herself, but of so sweet a countenance that
our little Pilgrim felt no shyness, but recognised a friend at once. She
was more occupied looking at this new face, and feeling herself at once
so much happier (though she had been so happy before) in finding a
companion who could tell her what everything was, than in considering
what these words might mean. But just then once more the recollection of
the four walls, with their little pictures hanging, and the window with
its curtains drawn, seemed to come round her for a moment, so that her
whole soul was in a confusion. And as this vision slowly faded away
(though she could not tell which was the vision, the darkened room or
this lovely light), her attention came back to the words at which she
had laughed, and at which the other had laughed as she repeated them.
Died?--was it possible that this could be the meaning of it all.

"Died?" she said, looking with wonder in her companion's face, which
smiled back to her. "But do you mean--? You cannot mean--? I have never
been so well. I am so strong. I have no trouble anywhere. I am full of
life."

The other nodded her beautiful head with a more beautiful smile, and the