"He whom I mean is called--" and here the lady said a name which was the
true name of a brother born, whom the Pilgrim loved above all others.
She gave a cry, and then she said trembling, "I know your voice, but I
cannot see your face. And what you say makes me think of many things. No
one else has covered her face when she has spoken to me. I know you, and
yet I cannot tell who you are."

The woman stood for a little without saying a word, and then very
softly, in a voice which only the heart heard, she called the little
Pilgrim by her name.

"MOTHER," cried the Pilgrim, with such a cry of joy that it echoed all
about in the sweet air: and flung herself upon the veiled lady, and drew
the veil from her face, and saw that it was she. And with this sight
there came a revelation which flooded her soul with happiness. For the
face which had been old and feeble was old no longer, but fair in the
maturity of day; and the figure that had been bent and weary was full of
a tender majesty, and the arms that clasped her about were warm and soft
with love and life. And all that had changed their relations in the
other days and made the mother in her weakness seem as a child, and
transferred all protection and strength to the daughter, was gone for
ever: and the little Pilgrim beheld in a rapture one who was her sister
and equal, yet ever above her--more near to her than any, though all
were so near--one of whom she herself was a part, yet another, and who
knew all her thoughts and the way of them before they arose in her. And
to see her face as in the days of her prime, and her eyes so clear and
wise, and to feel once more that which is different from the love of
all, that which is still most sweet where all is sweet, the love of
one--was like a crown to her in her happiness. The little Pilgrim could