"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."