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“But I don’t see any steps,” exclaimed the little boy.

She smiled.

“Don’t you?” she said, “you’ve been climbing them all the time.”

“But it’s such a long way to come, and my legs don’t feel a bit tired,” he persisted, a little doubtfully.

“Oh, no one ever gets tired in the skies,” she explained, “we never get tired and we never grow old.”

“Do you live forever ‘n ever?”

“Yes, forever,” she answered gently, “but there are the fields.”

Before them and all around them they stretched–as far as his eyes could see, and as far as they could have seen if he had had the biggest telescope in the world.

They were not green like those of Earth, but blue–blue as if each blade of grass were a blade of violet. And each field was thickly planted with bright little gleams like fireflies, winking, winking through the night.

And here and there was a great big star, like the Star Lady herself, walking about–no, it wasn’t that–they were floating about the meadows. How Marmaduke wished he knew the word she had said they used in the skies for “walking.”

“Are they stars or angels?” he asked her.

“Yes and no,” she replied. Her answer was very strange, but she wouldn’t explain it.

Suddenly Marmaduke thought of a question he had often asked people down on Earth. He could put it to the Star Lady and see if she would give the same answer as Mother. It was an old, old question that little children have asked ever since the world began.

“Who made the stars?” it was.

“God,” she answered gently, “at least He made the big ones–but not the little ones.”

“And who made them?”

“Oh, the people on earth. Perhaps you made a few yourself,” she added.

“Me? How ever could I make stars?” And he stared at her in wonder.

“Oh, yes you can. Do you see those little ones there? They are the kind deeds people do on Earth. We go looking for them, and we can find them easily, for they shine out even in the darkest woods and the darkest streets. Then we put them up here. Look hard and perhaps you can find some you recognize.”

Marmaduke did look hard. There was one near him. It was very little, but, somehow, as he looked he seemed to know it.

He went very near it. It twinkled like a real star, yet it was round as a bubble. And in it, just as in a soap bubble, he saw a picture.

The Star Lady was looking at him with an amused smile.

“What do you see?” she asked.

Yes, sure enough, there was a picture in it, a little faint, but he could make it out a horse and a bright red cart and on the seat a boy with crutches.

“Why it’s Little Geeup and Johnny Cricket!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, it’s the picture of the time you took him for a ride,” she answered. “I saw you do it, and I went down to Earth, and took that kind, bright little star deed, and planted it here in this very same field.”

“Oh, oh!” It was all he could say, it was so wonderful.

Then he saw another field not far away that was full of particularly bright stars.

“I think I know those,” he told the Star Lady, “they seem like friends.”

“Do they? No wonder!”

Then she looked at him, her head on one side, and a smile in her eyes.

“I won’t tell you what they are. I’m going to let you tell me.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” he cried, “they’re Mother’s kind deeds–all she’s done for me and Jehosophat and Hepzebiah–and, oh, how many there are!” he added.

“Yes indeed, my dear. You never guessed there were so many, did you?”

Marmaduke grew very solemn as he replied,–

“But I won’t forget now ever.”

From where they stood, the great blue fields rose into a hill. And on the top of the hill was a beautiful star, the largest of all.

“And what is that?” the little boy asked his new friend.