The woman turned and looked down upon her, for she was tall and stately, and immediately took the hand of the little Pilgrim into hers, and held it without answering, till the poet had ended and come down from the place where he had been standing.  He came straight through the crowd to where this lady stood, and said something to her.  “You did well to tell me,” looking at her with love in his eyes,—­not the tender sweetness of all those kind looks around, but the love that is for one.  The little Pilgrim looked at them with her heart beating, and was very glad for them, and happy in herself; for she had not seen this love before since she came into the city, and it had troubled her to think that perhaps it did not exist any more.  “I am glad,” the lady said, and gave him her other hand; “but here is a little sister who asks me something, and I must answer her.  I think she has but newly come.”

“She has a face full of the morning,” the poet said.  It did the little Pilgrim good to feel the touch of the warm, soft hand; and she was not afraid, but lifted her eyes and spoke to the lady and to the poet.  “It is beautiful what you said to us.  Sometimes in the old time we used to look up to the beautiful skies and wonder what there was above the clouds; but we never thought that up here in this great city you would be thinking of what we were doing, and making beautiful poems all about us.  We thought that you would sing wonderful psalms, and talk of things high, high above us.”

“The little sister does not know what the meaning of the earth is,” the poet said.  “It is but a little speck, but it is the centre of all.  Let her walk with us, and we will go home, and you will tell her, Ama, for I love to hear you talk.”

“Will you come with us?” the lady said.

And the little Pilgrim’s heart leaped up in her, to think she was now going to see a home in this wonderful city; and they went along, hand in hand, and though they were three together, and many were coming and going, there was no difficulty, for every one made way for them.  And there was a little murmur of pleasure as the poet passed, and those who had heard his poem made obeisance to him, and thanked him, and thanked the Father for him that he was able to show them so many beautiful things.  And they walked along the street which was shining with color, and saw as they passed how the master painter had come to his work, and was standing upon the balcony where the little Pilgrim had been, and bringing out of the wall, under his hand, faces which were full of life, and which seemed to spring forth as if they had been hidden there.  “Let us wait a little and see him working,” the poet said; and all round about the people stopped on their way, and there was a soft cry of pleasure and praise all through the beautiful street.  And the painter with whom the little Pilgrim had talked before came, and stood behind her as if he had been an old friend, and called out