"The _proofs_ of some pictures you will remember to have half seen,"
replied the beam.

And sure enough! with a start of amaze and wonder she saw before her
eyes the people who had sat in the crowded gallery with her before she
had left it to journey here with her sunbeam guide; but, oh! with such
a difference.

The baby she had thought so ugly was in reality a white-winged angel,
mild-eyed and pitying; while the hump-backed boy represented a patience
so tender that it beautified everything upon which it shone. She
thought she recognized in one of the pictures a frock of filmy lace
that she remembered to have seen before; but the form it encased was
strange to her, so ill-shapen and unlovely it looked; while the face
was so repulsive that she shrank from it with horror.

"Is that what I thought was the pretty girl?" she murmured tremulously.

"Yes," replied the beam, simply.

The next portrait was that of the silver-haired old lady whom Marjorie
had thought so crooked and bowed. She saw now why her shoulders were
bent. It was because of the mass of memories she carried,--memories
gathered through a long and useful life. Her silver hair made a halo
about her head.

"The next is yours," breathed the voice at her side, softly. "Will you
look?"