Every now and then he made me sit down to rest, and he in a musing solemn sort of way would relate some little story, reflecting, even to my childish mind, a strange suspicion of a spiritual meaning, but different from what honest Mrs.Rusk used to expound to me from the Parables, and, somehow, startling in its very vagueness.
Thus entertained, though a little awfully, I accompanied the dark mysterious little 'whipper-snapper' through the woodland glades.

We came, to me quite unexpectedly, in the deep sylvan shadows, upon the grey, pillared temple, four-fronted, with a slanting pedestal of lichen-stained steps, the lonely sepulchre in which I had the morning before seen poor mamma laid.

At the sight the fountains of my grief reopened, and I cried bitterly, repeating, 'Oh! mamma, mamma, little mamma!' and so went on weeping and calling wildly on the deaf and the silent.

There was a stone bench some ten steps away from the tomb.
'Sit down beside me, my child,' said the grave man with the black eyes, very kindly and gently.

'Now, what do you see there ?' he asked, pointing horizontally with his stick towards the centre of the opposite structure.
'Oh, _that_--that place where poor mamma is ?' 'Yes, a stone wall with pillars, too high for either you or me to see over.
But----' Here he mentioned a name which I think must have been Swedenborg, from what I afterwards learnt of his tenets and revelations; I only know that it sounded to me like the name of a magician in a fairy tale; I fancied he lived in the wood which surrounded us, and I began to grow frightened as he proceeded.
'But Swedenborg sees beyond it, over, and _through_ it, and has told me all that concerns us to know.