‘Do you believe in altitudes?’ It was Richard Everidge, Aunt Rutha’s favourite nephew, who asked the question of Pauline, as they sat on the broad piazza after church waiting for lunch.

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean that trilogy of exulting triumph over the trammels of circumstance that Mr Dunn gave us this morning. Don’t you remember? “Life is what we make it—an anthem or a dirge, a psalm of hope or a lamentation of despair.” Do you believe any one can live in such a rare atmosphere every day?’

‘Of course she does,’ and Belle laughed merrily. ‘Anyone who has courage to stroll through the Middle Ages with old Mr Hallam before sunrise, must have plenty of altitude in her composition. It is my belief she lives on Mount Shasta, in a moral sense, and I shouldn’t be surprised to hear of her taking out a building permit at the North Pole, if she thought duty called her. But, Dick, how can you be such an atrocious sceptic as to doubt the possibility of one’s living above the clouds when you know my lady!’

‘Ah, but she is Tryphosa, the blessed.’

‘Tryphosa!’ echoed Pauline in a mystified tone.

‘That is her name,’ said Richard Everidge, with a tender reverence in his voice, ‘and she deserves it, for she is among the aristocracy of the elect. I never see her without feeling envious, and yet she has been a sufferer for years. I am amazed that Belle has let all this time pass without taking you to call at the threshold of the Palace Beautiful.’

‘There have been so many other things,’ said Belle, ‘tennis, you know, and canoe practice and tandem parties.’

Her cousin laughed.

‘But that is only when Russ and I are not reading up for exams. What do you find to occupy your leisure?’

‘Leisure!’ exclaimed Belle solemnly. ‘Leisure, my dear boy, has been an unknown quantity ever since I undertook to pilot this most inexorable young woman among the antiquities of our venerable city. She is an inveterate relic-hunter; is enraptured with Bunker Hill and the Old South; delights in Cornhill, and wherever she can find a crooked old street that reminds her of Washington; and pokes about all the old cemeteries, until I feel as eerie as Coleridge’s ancient mariner. I believe she expects to come upon all the Pilgrim Fathers buried in one vault. But there is nothing special on the programme for to-day—we will go and see my lady this very afternoon.’

As they went in to lunch, Richard Everidge leaned over to Pauline and whispered:—

‘You have not answered my question. Do you think it is possible for common, every-day Christians to live above the clouds?’

‘If I were a Christian,’ she said, in a low tone, ‘I should want to get as high up as I could.’

When they reached Tryphosa’s, they heard her singing. They waited, listening.

Then Belle opened the door softly and went in.

Pauline saw a large bay window opening into a tiny conservatory, which loving hands kept dowered with a profusion of blooming plants. The room was large and dainty with delicate draperies, two or three fine pictures, and a beautiful representation in marble of the Angel of Patience, which stood on a buhl table, where the invalid’s eyes could always rest upon it.

Tryphosa turned her head to greet them from the low couch, which was the battle-ground where she had wrestled with the angel of pain during years of physical agony. Her eyes were lustrous with a radiance not of earth, and a wealth of silver hair fell in soft curling waves about her face; her mouth, sweet and tender, parted in a smile of welcome as she held out her hands to the girls.

Belle caught them in her own, and kissed them gently.

‘This is our cousin, my lady, Aunt Mildred’s only child.’The thin hands drew Pauline’s face down, and she was kissed on cheek and brow.

‘Your mother was my friend, dear child, in the long ago.’ Then she added softly, with her hands on the silver cross at her throat, ‘Are you a princess? Do you belong to the King?’

Pauline shook her head, ‘No, my lady.’

‘I am very sorry.’

They sat down then beside her. She held Pauline’s strong hand between her wasted fingers.

‘Dear Mildred Davis! You have her eyes and brow, my child. It does me good to see you.’

‘That is just like papa,’ said Belle. ‘He says he can almost fancy himself back in the old home with Aunt Mildred getting him ready for school.’

Pauline coloured with pleasure. No one spoke of her mother at Sleepy Hollow.

She looked through the French windows into the conservatory.

‘How beautiful the flowers are!’

‘You love them? Of course you must, to be your mother’s child. It is such a comfort to me to lie here and listen to them talk.’

‘Talk!’ exclaimed Pauline. ‘Do they do that, my lady?’

Tryphosa smiled.

‘Surely,’ she said gently. ‘“Every flower has its story, and every butterfly’s life is a poem.”’

Belle broke the silence.

‘We heard you singing, my lady; I do not think Pauline had thought you would have the heart to sing.’

A ripple of the sweetest laughter Pauline had ever heard fell through the quiet room, and Tryphosa’s eyes flashed merrily.‘“The pilgrims kept on their journey, and as they journeyed they sang,”’ she said. ‘Do you think there is anything to cry about when we are on our way to a palace, dear child? But Sunday is always my resting time,’ she continued, ‘I do not sing as much through the week as I should. I am tired often, and busy.’

‘Busy,’ echoed Pauline involuntarily, with a glance at the frail body propped up among the cushions.

Tryphosa gave another soft, merry laugh, and drew forward a rosewood writing-table, which was fitted to her couch.

‘Here is where I do my work, when my hands are willing; and then there are my dear poor people, and my rich friends, and sometimes the latter need as much comforting as the former. Oh, there is a great deal to do, dear child, for some have to be taught the way to the palace, and some have to be brought into audience with the King,’ her voice hushed itself into a reverent whisper.

‘And how about the pain, my lady?’ asked Belle. Pauline’s eyes were full of tears.

‘Just right,’ she answered brightly. ‘Some days are set in minor key, and the Lord calls me where the waves run high; but so long as I am sure it is the Lord, what does it matter? Not one good thing has failed of all that He has promised, and soldiers do not mind a few sword thrusts when they are marching to victory. “This day the noise of battle, the next the victor’s song.” She closed her eyes and a triumphant smile played about her mouth.‘You seem so certain, my lady,’ said Belle wistfully.

‘Surely! “For we know that He hath prepared for us a city.”’

‘Now you mean heaven,’ said Pauline impetuously. ‘To me heaven is enveloped in fog.’

‘It will not be, dear child, when the mists have rolled away, and in the clear light of the Sun of Righteousness you look across to the other shore.’

‘Couldn’t you tell me what it is like, my lady? You seem to know. I can’t fathom it, and everything looks so dark.’

Tryphosa lifted a plain little book from a revolving bookcase of morocco-bound treasures, which stood within easy reach.

‘I believe I will let Miss Warner answer you. “Would you like a heaven so small, so human, that mortal words could line it out, and mortal wishes be its boundary? The things we look for are prepared by One whose thoughts are as far above our thoughts as the broad starlit heaven is above this little gaslit earth. And do you think that people are to be all massed in heaven, losing their various identities, their differing tastes, their separate natures? Going from this lower world so full of its adaptations, where colour and form take on a thousand changes, and life and pursuit can be varied almost at will, to a mere dead level of perfect felicity? To leave earth where no two things are alike, and go to heaven to find no two different! The Lord’s preparations mean more than that. We should learn better from this lower world. No one pair of black eyes is just like another, no two leaves upon the same tree. And not a yellow blossom can spring up by the wayside, without a red or a white one at hand for contrast. Are the clouds copies of each other? Are the shadows on the hills ever twice the same? Take for your comfort the full assurance that the very Tree of Life—which in Eden seems to have borne but one manner of fruit—in heaven shall bear twelve. But we cannot imagine it—in its fulness. We must look, not to see clear outlines and distinct colours, but only the flood of heavenly light. From point to point the promises pass on, with their golden touch; until the vacant places in our lives disappear, and the aches die out, and desire and longing are lost in ‘more than heart could wish.’”’

A pause fell then, and a stillness, broken only by the plashing of a little fountain, whose drops fell among the flowers.

As they rose to go, Tryphosa drew Pauline’s face down until it touched her own.

‘Dear child, won’t you claim your birthright?’

‘I will, my lady.’

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