she knew. Indeed it was
scarcely a scene at all--nothing but light, so soft and lovely that it
soothed and caressed her eyes. She thought all at once of a summer
morning when she was a child, when she had woke in the deep night which
yet was day, early--so early that the birds were scarcely astir--and had
risen up with a delicious sense of daring, and of being all alone in the
mystery of the sunrise, in the unawakened world which lay at her feet to
be explored, as if she were Eve just entering upon Eden. It was curious
how all those childish sensations, long forgotten, came back to her as
she found herself so unexpectedly out of her sleep in the open air and
light. In the recollection of that lovely hour, with a smile at herself,
so different as she now knew herself to be, she was moved to rise and
look a little more closely about her and see where she was.

When I call her a little Pilgrim, I do not mean that she was a child;
on the contrary, she was not even young. She was little by nature, with
as little flesh and blood as was consistent with mortal life; and she
was one of those who are always little for love. The tongue found
diminutives for her; the heart kept her in a perpetual youth. She was so
modest and so gentle that she always came last so long as there was any
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 b