tell me of one that none of us had discovered."

"Oh," said the little Pilgrim, with tears in her eyes, "I should like to
have been that one!--that was not known even to the angels, but only to
Himself!"

The historian smiled. "It was my brother," he said.

The Pilgrim looked at him with great wonder. "Your brother, and you did
not know him!"

And then he turned over the pages and showed her where the story was.

"You know," he said, "that we who live here are not of your time, but
have lived and lived here till the old life is far away and like a
dream. There were great tumults and fightings in our time, and it was
settled by the prince of the place that our town was to be abandoned,
and all the people left to the mercy of an enemy who had no mercy. But
every day as he rode out he saw at one door a child, a little fair boy,
who sat on the steps, and sang his little song like a bird. This child
was never afraid of anything--when the horses pranced past him, and the
troopers pushed him aside, he looked up into their faces and smiled. And
when he had anything, a piece of bread, or an apple, or a plaything, he
shared it with his playmates; and his little face, and his pretty voice,
and all his pleasant ways, made that corner bright. He was like a flower
growing there; everybody smiled that saw him."

"I have seen such a child," the little Pilgrim said.

"But we made no account of him," said the historian. "The Lord of the