grew over her, and made a lovely canopy over her head. There was
something in her face that was like a child--her mouth so soft as if it
had never spoken anything but heavenly words, her eyes brown and golden
as if they were filled with light. She took the little Pilgrim's hands
in hers, and held them and smoothed them between her own. These hands
had been very thin and worn before, but now, when the Pilgrim looked at
them, she saw that they became softer and whiter every moment with the
touch of this immortal youth.

"I knew you were coming," said the maiden. "When my mother has wanted
me I have seen you there. And you were thinking of her now--that was how
I found you."

"Do you know, then, what one thinks?" said the little Pilgrim with
wondering eyes.

"It is in the air; and when it concerns us it comes to us like the
breeze. But we who are the children here, we feel it more quickly than
you."

"Are you a child?" said the little Pilgrim, "or are you an angel?
Sometimes you are like a child; but then your face shines and you are
like--you must have some name for it here; there is nothing among the
words I know." And then she paused a little, still looking at her, and
cried, "Oh, if she could but see you, little Margaret! That would do her
most good of all."

Then the maiden Margaret shook her lovely head. "What does her most good
is the will of the Father," she said.