kept him. And there he lay, and was about to die. The little Pilgrim
forgot all but the pity of it, and their hearts that were breaking, and
the vacant place that was soon to be. She cried out aloud upon the Father
with a great cry. She forgot that it was a grief to Him in His great
glory to refuse.

There came no reply; but the room grew light as with a reflection out of
heaven, and the child in the bed, who had been moving restlessly in the
weariness of ending life, turned his head towards her, and his eyes
opened wide, and he saw her where she stood. He cried out, 'Look! mother,
mother!' The mother, who was on her knees by the bedside, lifted her head
and cried, 'What is it, what is it, O my darling?' and the father, who
had turned away his face not to see the child die, came nearer to the
bed, hoping they knew not what. Their faces were paler than the face of
the dying, upon which there was light; but no light came to them out of
the hidden heaven. 'Look! she has come for me,' he said; but his voice
was so weak they could not hear him, nor take any comfort. At this the
little Pilgrim put out her arms to him, forgetting in her joy the poor
people who were mourning, and cried out, 'Oh, but I must go with him! I
must take him home!' For this was her own work, and she thought of her
wonderings and her questions no more.

Some one touched her on the shoulder, and she looked round; and behind
her was a great company of the dear children from the better country,
whom the Father had sent, and not her,--lest he should grieve for those
he had left behind,--to come for the child and show him the way. She
paused for a moment, scarcely willing to give him up; but then her
companion touched her and pointed to the other side. Ah, that was
different! The mother lay by the side of the bed, her face turned only to
the little white body which her child had dropped from him as he came out