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 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 not think for joy, nor
say a word, but held