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 little, still looking at her, and cried, “Oh, if she could but see you, little Margaret!  That would do her most good of all.”

Then the maiden Margaret shook her lovely head.  “What does her most good is the will of the Father,” she said.

At this the little Pilgrim felt once more that thrill of expectation and awe.  “Oh, child, you have seen him?” she cried.

And the other smiled.  “Have you forgotten who they are that always behold his face?  We have never had any fear or trembling.  We are not angels, and there is no other name; we are the children.  There is something given to us beyond the others.  We have had no other home.”

“Oh, tell me, tell me!” the little Pilgrim cried.

Upon this Margaret kissed her, putting her soft cheek against hers, and said; “It is a mystery; it cannot be put into words; in your time you will know.”

“When you touch me you change me, and I grow like you,” the Pilgrim said.  “Ah, if she could see us together, you and me!  And will you go to her soon again?  And do you see them always, what they are doing? and take care of them?”

“It is our Father who takes cares of them, and our Lord who is our Brother.  I do his errands when I am able.  Sometimes he will let me go, sometimes another, according as it is best.  Who am I that I should take care of them?  I serve them when I may.”

“But you do not forget them?” the Pilgrim said, with wistful eyes.

“We love them always,” said Margaret.  She was more still than the lady who had first spoken with the Pilgrim.  Her countenance was full of a heavenly calm.  It had never known passion nor anguish.  Sometimes there was in it a far-seeing look of vision, sometimes the simplicity of a child.  “But what are we in comparison?  For he loves them more than we do.  When he keeps us from them, it is for love.  We must each live our own life.”