one whom she could put before her. But this little body, and the soul
which was not little, and the heart which was big and great, had known
all the round of sorrows that fill a woman's life, without knowing any
of its warmer blessings. She had nursed the sick, she had entertained
the weary, she had consoled the dying. She had gone about the world,
which had no prize nor recompense for her, with a smile. Her little
presence had been always bright. She was not clever; you might have said
she had no mind at all; but so wise and right and tender a heart that it
was as good as genius. This is to let you know what this little Pilgrim
had been.

She rose up, and it was strange how like she felt to the child she
remembered in that still summer morning so many years ago. Her little
body, which had been worn and racked with pain, felt as light and
unconscious of itself as then. She took her first step forward with the
same sense of pleasure, yet of awe, suppressed delight and daring and
wild adventure, yet perfect safety. But then the recollection of the
little room in which she had fallen asleep came quickly, strangely over
her, confusing her mind. "I must be dreaming, I suppose," she said to
herself regretfully; for it was all so sweet that she wished it to be
true. Her movement called her attention to herself, and she found that
she was dressed, not in her night-dress, as she had lain down, but in a
dress she did not know. She paused for a moment to look at it and
wonder. She had never seen it before; she did not make out how it was
made, or what stuff it was; but it fell so pleasantly about her, it was
so soft and light, that in her confused state she abandoned that subject
with only an additional sense of pleasure. And now the atmosphere became
more distinct to her. She saw that under her feet was a greenness as of
close velvet turf, both cool and warm, cool and soft to touch, but with
no damp in it, as might have been at that early hour, and with flowers