"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 occasion to bring us news; for they go everywhere, you know."
"Yes," said the little Pilgrim, though indeed she had not known it till now; but it seemed to her as if it had come to her mind by nature and she had never needed to be told.
"They are so tender-hearted," the painter said; "and more than that, they are very curious about men and women. They have known it all from the beginning, and it is a wonder to them. There is a friend of mine, an angel, who is more wise in men's hearts than any one I know; and yet he will say to me sometimes, 'I do not understand you—you are wonderful.' They like to find out all we are thinking. It is an endless pleasure to them, just as it is to some of us to watch the people in the other worlds."