“But it is hard for them sometimes,” said the little Pilgrim, who could not withdraw her thoughts from those she had left.

“They are never forsaken,” said the angel maiden.

“But oh! there are worse things than sorrow,” the little Pilgrim said; “there is wrong, there is evil, Margaret.  Will not he send you to step in before them, to save them from wrong?”

“It is not for us to judge,” said the young Margaret, with eyes full of heavenly wisdom; “our Brother has it all in his hand.  We do not read their hearts, like him.  Sometimes you are permitted to see the battle—­”

The little Pilgrim covered her eyes with her hands.  “I could not—­I could not; unless I knew they were to win the day!”

“They will win the day in the end.  But sometimes, when it was being lost, I have seen in his face a something—­I cannot tell—­more love than before.  Something that seemed to say, ’My child, my child, would that I could do it for thee, my child!’”

“Oh! that is what I have always felt,” cried the Pilgrim, clasping her hands; her eyes were dim, her heart for a moment almost forgot its blessedness.  “But he could; oh, little Margaret, he could!  You have forgotten, ‘Lord; if thou wilt thou canst—­’”

The child of heaven looked at her mutely, with sweet, grave eyes, in which there was much that confused her who was a stranger here, and once more softly shook her head.

“Is it that he will not then?” said the other with a low voice of awe.  “Our Lord, who died—­he—­”

“Listen!” said the other; “I hear his step on the way.”

The little Pilgrim rose up from the mound on which she was sitting.  Her soul was confused with wonder and fear.  She had thought that an angel might step between a soul on earth and sin, and that if one but prayed and prayed, the dear Lord would stand between and deliver the tempted.  She had meant when she saw his face to ask him to save.  Was not he born, did not he live and die, to save?  The angel maiden looked at her all the while with eyes that understood all her perplexity and her doubt, but spoke not.  Thus it was that before the Lord came to her, the sweetness of her first blessedness was obscured, and she found that here too, even here, though in a moment she should see him, there was need for faith.  Young Margaret, who had been kneeling by her, rose up too and stood among the lilies, waiting, her soft countenance shining, her eyes turned towards him who was coming.  Upon her there was no cloud nor doubt.  She was one of the children of that land familiar with his presence.  And in the air there was a sound such as those who hear it alone can describe,—­a sound as of help coming and safety, like the sound of a deliverer when one is in deadly danger, like the sound of a conqueror, like the step of the dearest beloved coming home.  As it came nearer, the fear melted away out of the beating heart of the Pilgrim.  Who could fear so near him?  Her breath went away from her, her heart out of her bosom to meet his coming.  Oh, never fear could live where he was!  Her soul was all confused, but it was with hope and joy.  She held out her hands in that amaze, and dropped upon her knees, not knowing what she did.