The Little Pilgrim | Page 6

learned that
though she could smile and give thanks to the Father in the recollection
of her own griefs that were past, yet those that are present are too
poignant, and to look upon others in their hour of darkness makes His
ways more hard to comprehend than even when the sorrow is your
own.
While she mused thus, there was suddenly revealed to her another sight.
They had gone far before they came to this new scene. Night had crept
over the skies all gray and dark; and the sea came in with a whisper
which sounded to some like the hush of peace, and to some like the
voice of sorrow and moaning, and to some was but the monotony of
endless recurrence, in which was no soul. The skies were dark overhead,
but opened with a clear shining of light which had no color, towards the
west,--for the sun had long gone down, and it was night. The two
travellers perceived a woman who came out of a house all lit with
lamps and firelight, and took the lonely path towards the sea. And the
little Pilgrim knew her, as she had known the father and mother in the
darkened house, and would have joined her with a cry of pleasure; but
she remembered that the friend could not see her or hear her, being
wrapped still in the mortal body, and in a close enveloping mantle of
thoughts and cares. The Sage made her a sign to follow, and these two
tender companions accompanied her who saw them not, walking
darkling by the silent way. The heart of the woman was heavy in her
breast. It was so sore by reason of trouble, and for all the bitter wounds
of the past, and all the fears that beset her life to come, that she walked,
not weeping because of being beyond tears, but as it were bleeding, her
thoughts being in her little way like those of His upon whose brow
there once stood drops as it were of blood; and out of her heart there
came a moaning which was without words. If words had been possible,

they would have been as His also, who said, 'Father, forgive them, for
they know not what they do.' For those who had wounded her were
those whom in all the world she loved most dear; and the quivering of
anguish was in her as she walked, seeking the darkness and the silence,
and to hide herself, if that might be, from her own thoughts. She went
along the lonely path with the stinging of her wounds so keen and sharp
that all her body and soul were as one pain. Greater grief hath no man
than this, to be slain and tortured by those whom he loves. When her
soul could speak, this was what it said 'Father, forgive them! Father,
save them!' She had no strength for more.
This the heavenly pilgrims saw,--for they stood by her as in their own
country, where every thought is clear, and saw her heart. But as they
followed her and looked into her soul--with their hearts, which were
human too, wrung at the sight of hers in its anguish--there suddenly
became visible before them a strange sight such as they had never seen
before. It was like the rising of the sun; but it was not the sun. Suddenly
into the heart upon which they looked there came a great silence and
calm. There was nothing said that even they could hear, nor done that
they could see; but for a moment the throbbing was stilled, and the
anguish calmed, and there came a great peace. The woman in whom
this wonder was wrought was astonished, as they were. She gave a low
cry in the darkness for wonder that the pain had gone from her in an
instant, in the twinkling of an eye. There was no promise made to her
that her prayer would be granted, and no new light given to guide her
for the time to come; but her pain was taken away. She stood hushed,
and lifted her eyes; and the gray of the sea, and the low cloud that was
like a canopy above, and the lightening of colorless light towards the
west, entered with their great quiet into her heart. 'Is this the peace that
passeth all understanding?' she said to herself, confused with the
sudden calm. In all her life it had never so happened to her before,--to
be healed of her grievous wounds, yet without cause; and while no
change was wrought, yet to be put to rest.
'It is our Brother,' said the little Pilgrim, shedding tears of joy. 'It is the
secret of the Lord,' said the Sage; but