A Little Pilgrim | Page 2

walls or roof, her little pictures were all gone,
the curtains at her window. The discovery gave her no uneasiness in
that delightful calm. She lay still to think of it all, to wonder, yet
undisturbed. It half amused her that these things should be changed, but
did not rouse her yet with any shock of alteration. The light grew fuller
and fuller round, growing into day, clearing her eyes from the sweet
mist of the first waking. Then she raised herself upon her arm. She was
not in her room, she was in no scene she knew. Indeed it was scarcely a
scene at all--nothing but light, so soft and lovely that it soothed and
caressed her eyes. She thought all at once of a summer morning when
she was a child, when she had woke in the deep night which yet was
day, early--so early that the birds were scarcely astir--and had risen up
with a delicious sense of daring, and of being all alone in the mystery
of the sunrise, in the unawakened world which lay at her feet to be
explored, as if she were Eve just entering upon Eden. It was curious
how all those childish sensations, long forgotten, came back to her as
she found herself so unexpectedly out of her sleep in the open air and
light. In the recollection of that lovely hour, with a smile at herself, so
different as she now knew herself to be, she was moved to rise and look
a little more closely about her and see where she was.
When I call her a little Pilgrim, I do not mean that she was a child; on

the contrary, she was not even young. She was little by nature, with as
little flesh and blood as was consistent with mortal life; and she was
one of those who are always little for love. The tongue found
diminutives for her; the heart kept her in a perpetual youth. She was so
modest and so gentle that she always came last so long as there was any
one whom she could put before her. But this little body, and the soul
which was not little, and the heart which was big and great, had known
all the round of sorrows that fill a woman's life, without knowing any
of its warmer blessings. She had nursed the sick, she had entertained
the weary, she had consoled the dying. She had gone about the world,
which had no prize nor recompense for her, with a smile. Her little
presence had been always bright. She was not clever; you might have
said she had no mind at all; but so wise and right and tender a heart that
it was as good as genius. This is to let you know what this little Pilgrim
had been.
She rose up, and it was strange how like she felt to the child she
remembered in that still summer morning so many years ago. Her little
body, which had been worn and racked with pain, felt as light and
unconscious of itself as then. She took her first step forward with the
same sense of pleasure, yet of awe, suppressed delight and daring and
wild adventure, yet perfect safety. But then the recollection of the little
room in which she had fallen asleep came quickly, strangely over her,
confusing her mind. "I must be dreaming, I suppose," she said to
herself regretfully; for it was all so sweet that she wished it to be true.
Her movement called her attention to herself, and she found that she
was dressed, not in her night-dress, as she had lain down, but in a dress
she did not know. She paused for a moment to look at it and wonder.
She had never seen it before; she did not make out how it was made, or
what stuff it was; but it fell so pleasantly about her, it was so soft and
light, that in her confused state she abandoned that subject with only an
additional sense of pleasure. And now the atmosphere became more
distinct to her. She saw that under her feet was a greenness as of close
velvet turf, both cool and warm, cool and soft to touch, but with no
damp in it, as might have been at that early hour, and with flowers
showing here and there. She stood looking round her, not able to
identify the landscape because she was still confused a little, and then
walked softly on, all the time afraid lest she should awake and lose the

sweetness of it all, and the sense of rest and happiness. She felt so light,
so airy, as if she could skim across the field like any child. It was bliss
enough to breathe