have come," which was a reply which made the
little Pilgrim wonder more and more, though she was very glad and joyful
to have this companion upon her way. And then the lady began to ask her
many questions, not about the city, or the great things she had seen,
but about herself, and what the dear Lord had given her to do.

"I am little and weak, and I cannot do much," the little Pilgrim said.
"It is nothing but pleasure. It is to welcome those that are coming,
and tell them. Sometimes they are astonished and do not know. I was so
myself. I came in my sleep, and understood nothing. But now that I know,
it is sweet to tell them that they need not fear."

"I was glad," the lady said, "that you came in your sleep: for sometimes
the way is dark and hard, and you are little and tender. When your
brother comes you will be the first to see him, and show him the way."

"My brother! is he coming?" the little Pilgrim cried. And then she said
with a wistful look, "But we are all brethren, and you mean only one of
those who are the children of our Father. You must forgive me that I do
not know the higher speech, but only what is natural, for I have not yet
been long here."

"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 P