At this the little Pilgrim felt once more that thrill of expectation
and awe. "Oh, child, you have seen Him?" she cried.

And the other smiled. "Have you forgotten who they are that always
behold His face? We have never had any fear or trembling. We are not
angels, and there is no other name; we are the children. There is
something given to us beyond the others. We have had no other home."

"Oh, tell me, tell me!" the little Pilgrim cried.

Upon this Margaret kissed her, putting her soft cheek against hers, and
said, "It is a mystery; it cannot be put into words; in your time you
will know."

"When you touch me you change me, and I grow like you," the Pilgrim
said. "Ah, if she could see us together, you and me! And will you go to
her soon again? And do you see them always--what they are doing? and
take care of them?"

"It is our Father who takes care of them, and our Lord who is our
Brother. I do His errands when I am able. Sometimes He will let me go,
sometimes another, according as it is best. Who am I that I should take
care of them? I serve them when I may."

"But you do not forget them?" the Pilgrim said, with wistful eyes.

"We love them always," said Margaret. She was more still than the lady
who had first spoken with the Pilgrim. Her countenance was full of a
heavenly calm. It had never known passion nor anguish. Sometimes there
was in it a far-seeing look of vision, sometimes the simplicity of a