“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 this dear mother’s hands and looked in her face, and her heart soared away to the Father in thanks and joy.  They sat down by the roadside under the shade of the trees, while the river ran softly by, and everything was hushed out of sympathy and kindness, and questioned each other of all that had been and was to be.  And the little Pilgrim told all the little news of home, and of the brothers and sisters and the children that had been born, and of those whose faces were turned towards this better country; and the mother smiled and listened and would have heard all over and over, although many things she already knew.  “But why should I tell you? for did not you watch over us and see all we did, and were not you near us always?” the little Pilgrim said.