Two little souls were speeding their outward way from God. Angels folded their white wings in wondering silence, and watched the little ones go forth upon their unknown mission. The sky parted to let them pass, and “trailing clouds of glory” the two souls swept on into that unmeasured space where there is no light but the stars, and no sound but the voice of their harmonies. Then the two little souls spoke. “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” asked each of the other.

“I am Spirit,” “I am Life,” they made answer.

“It is all one,” sang the little souls together. “We are the same. We came from God; we are going to dwell with men.”

So they sang very happily as they sped along, and their voices were attuned to the music of the great spheres.

When the little souls reached the earth they said good-bye to each other, for each little soul had a house of his own. Not an immovable house made of wood and stone, but a tiny tabernacle that could be moved about. It was made of flesh and blood and skin and soft bones. It was the form of a little child.

“Oh, how nice!” cried each little soul, quickly speeding through the house from top to toe, and pulling the strings which set the breath to coming and going, and the little fingers and toes to quirking and nestling.

“I must take a peep out of the windows,” cried each little soul, as he pulled up the curtains and looked out. “Oho! our baby has blue eyes like the violets,” shouted the noisy children.

“Ah, the Prince looks upon us; his Royal Highness has eyes like his father the King,” said the grand courtiers, speaking low, with deep reverence, for one of the little souls had found its home in a peasant’s hut, the other in the palace of a great king.

The little souls never saw one another again until they had spent their time on earth and were flying back to God. Again they were speeding their way through the unmeasured spaces of the stars.

The souls knew each other, remembering the time when they had gone out from God to dwell among men. They gazed with joy at each other, for these returning souls were full of gracious loveliness, such as earthly eyes have not seen.

“Sweet Life, you are no longer a little soul,” said Spirit; “you are strong and beautiful; you must have dwelt in a great house.” “Ay,” replied Life, serenely, “it was a perfect house, for the greatest of builders made it for me.”

“Then it was spacious and lofty and beautiful, and it stood in a high and sunny space?”

“Oh no; it was none of these,” replied Life. “It was narrow and infirm, and it trembled in the blast. No one who saw it desired it. But I loved it because it was the Gift of God, and I was so thankful. It stood in a deep valley, the shadows of the mountains made it dark, and I could not look far away. I could not look down: there was only one way to look, and that was up, and my light came not from this side or that, but straight down from the Father of Lights, and so I was a shining one, though I lived in a dark place.”

“What did you do in your house?”

“Always I toiled and served and suffered and loved, for some needed me who were poorer and weaker than I. Sometimes I was hungry and thirsty and in pain, but oftener I shared my loaf and cup, and helped the pain of others, and I kept the door ajar so that the poor and troubled ones, those who were cast down and ashamed, could come in without knocking and rest in a warm place; and they loved me—the poor, the weak, and the little ones. They are weeping now because my house is empty, and I shall look out of the windows no more: it is cold, the hearth fire can never glow again. But my house was weak and crumbling down upon me. I could stay no longer. So I came away and left it fallen, prone upon the ground—earth to earth.”

“My house,” said the Spirit, “was not like that; it was noble and strong. It stood on high among the kings of the earth, and looked over my broad dominions. My house had towers of strength and halls of bounty and fair gardens with pleasant fruits. Every one who saw it desired it for its beauty and feared it for its strength. It could not be shaken in the rudest blasts, and the shock of war could not make it tremble or force its gates.”

“What did you do in your house?”

“Always, like you, I toiled and served and suffered and loved, but not like you in the way of doing, for I was a king with sceptre and crown, and what I did was done in the royal manner. I could not share my cup and loaf with the hungry, nor lay my hand on the brow of pain as you did, but I could make laws and find out wisdom that would strengthen the land and bring bread and meat and health to my poor people. I could not take the suffering ones into my own house as you did, for they were many and my house was but one; but my house should stand a castle in their behalf—a stronghold and defence—and so standing it met its doom; in the prime of its glory it reeled, turret and foundation, beneath the onslaught of the oppressor, and with a great fall it lay prone on the battle-ground, crumbling back to earth.”

A herald went through the land crying, “The King is dead! the King is dead!”

“So is good Barbara,” answered the peasants. “She was born the same night as the King, and she died the same day.”

The two souls swept on through the wide spaces of the stars, on and on through the pearly gates of heaven. Angels folded their wings, and looked with tender awe upon these gracious beings who had come from the earth.

“We cannot tell who they are,” said the angels.

“One was a King. One was a peasant. But one cannot tell which was the King and which was the peasant,” said the angels: “these beings are alike wondrous fair and noble.”

The two souls swept on, with equal stroke of their shining wings, through the serried ranks of the heavenly host, and God did not welcome these home-coming souls as king or peasant, but He gave to each a new name—the new name which He has promised to him that overcometh.