ss all white and soft, like the
feathers of a white dove. There was something in her face different from
that of the other, by which the little Pilgrim knew somehow, without
knowing how, that she had come here as a child, and grown up in this
celestial place. She was tall and fair, and came along with so musical a
motion, as if her foot scarcely touched the ground, that she might have
had wings. And the little Pilgrim indeed was not sure as she watched,
whether it might not perhaps be an angel, for she knew that there were
angels among the blessed people who were coming and going about, but had
not been able yet to find one out. She knew that this new-comer was
coming to her, and turned towards her with a smile and a throb at her
heart of expectation. But when the heavenly maiden drew nearer, her
face, though it was so fair, looked to the Pilgrim like another face,
which she had known very well--indeed, like the homely and troubled face
of the friend of whom she had been thinking. And so she smiled all the
more, and held out her hands and said--"I am sure I know you," upon
which the other kissed her, and said, "We all know each other; but I
have seen you often before you came here," and knelt down by her, among
the flowers that were growing, just in front of some tall lilies that
grew over her, and made a lovely canopy over her head. There was
something in her face that was like a child--her mouth so soft as if it
had never spoken anything but heavenly words, her eyes brown and golden
as if they were filled with light. She took the little Pilgrim's hands
in hers, and held them and smoothed them between her own. These hands
had been very thin and worn before, but now, when the Pilgrim looked at
them, she saw that they became softer and whiter every moment with the
touch of this immortal youth.

"I knew you were coming," said the maiden. "When my mother has wanted
me I have seen you there. And you were thinking of her now--that was how
I found you."

"Do you know, then, what one thinks?" said the little Pilgrim with
wondering eyes.

"It is in the air; and when it concerns us it comes to us like the
breeze. But we who are the children here, we feel it more quickly than
you."

"Are you a child?" said the little Pilgrim, "or are you an angel?
Sometimes you are like a child; but then your face shines and you are
like--you must have some name for it here; there is nothing among the
words I know." And then she paused a lit