“I want to know where you are going. I want to know why you go; I have to go away too, very soon. I should like best to go with you.” “But I don’t know where we are going,” said the swallow; “how do you know you would like to come?” “You said it was to a nice place, with sunshine and flowers,” said the child. “Yes, so it is. I know that, but I don’t know where it is.” “Do none of you know?” “No; none of us know exactly.” “Then how can you find the way?” asked Winifred, with grave interest. The swallow looked at her with his bright eyes as he answered: “We cannot lose the way. Something always tells us how to go. It never tells us wrong.” “And you are not afraid?” “Oh no!” The swallow looked at the child with grave, bright eyes, and asked: “Would not you be afraid, either?” “N--no. I think not,” answered Winifred, with just a little hesitation in her voice. “Not afraid to leave your home and your parents, and brothers and friends, and go somewhere right away, you don’t know where?” Winifred was silent. She did not know what to say. She was beginning to feel a little fear, yet she hardly knew how or why. “You are not afraid, swallow?” “No; I know I shall be taken care of.” “Then why should I be afraid?” “I don’t know; but I think you are.” Winifred pondered again. “Do you know what makes you not afraid?” The swallow turned his head from side to side, and by-and-by answered: “I think it’s because I always do just as I’m meant to do--stay when I ought to stay, and fly when I ought to fly, build when I ought to build, and do just what I ought. If swallows always do that they need never be afraid.” “And how do you know what you ought to do?” “Something inside me tells me.” “Does it never tell you wrong?” “No, never.” Winifred sighed, and shook her head. “But I never have anything inside me to tell me what I ought to do and what I ought not,” she said. “Do you not?” said a soft voice quite close to her, and the child started, for it did not seem as if it was the swallow who had spoken, and looking round, Winifred saw a beautiful figure in white standing beside her, and looking with grave, kind eyes into her face. He had great white wings, and Winifred said half aloud, half to herself: “It is an angel.” “Winifred,” said the angel, softly and yet gravely, “have you nothing inside you that tells you when you do right and when you do wrong?” Slowly Winnie’s eyes fell, and the rosy colour mounted to her cheeks. “I do try not to do wrong. I don’t think I am very naughty,” she said, as if excusing herself. “Did I say you were?” asked the angel. “It seemed as if you did.” The angel smiled at her a sort of pitying smile. “Is it I that spoke, my child? or the _something_ in your heart to which you do not always listen?”