glad that they are alive, and believe that they think of me. All
the air seems full of messages, thoughts and confidences and
welcomes passing to and fro, binding souls to each other, and all
to God. There seems to be nothing that one needs to do to-day
except to live one's daily life; to be kind and joyful. To-day the
road of pilgrimage lies very straight and clear between its fences,
in an open ground, with neither valley nor hill, no by-path, no
turning. One can even see the gables and chimneys of some grave
house of welcome, "a roof for when the dark hours begin," full of
pious company and smiling maidens. And not, it seems, a false
security; one is not elated, confident, strong; one knows one's
weakness; but I think that the Lord of the land has lately passed
by with a smile, and given command that the pilgrims shall have a
space of quiet. These birds, these branching trees, have not yet
lost the joy of His passing. There, along the grassy tracks, His
patient footsteps went, how short a time ago! One does not hope
that all the journey will be easy and untroubled; there will be
fresh burdens to be borne, dim valleys full of sighs to creep
through, dark waters to wade across; these feet will stumble and
bleed; these knees will be weary before the end; but to-day there
is no doubt about the pilgrimage, no question of the far-off goal.
The world is sad, perhaps, but sweet; sad as the homeless clouds
that drift endlessly across the sky from marge to marge; sweet as
the note of the hidden bird, that rises from moment to moment from
the copse beside me, again and yet again, telling of a little heart
that is content to wait, and not ill-pleased to be alone with its
own soft thoughts.