“I know you can’t,” replied the beam, calmly.  “That is, you can’t see any farther than the outside part of things, and that is almost worse than seeing none of them at all.  But here we are nearing the court of the king.  Now don’t expect to see him, for that is impossible.  He is altogether too radiant for you; your eyes could not bear so much glory.  It would be just as if you took one of your own little moles or bats (creatures that are used to the dark) and put them in the full glare of a noonday sun.  The sun would be there, but they could not see it, because their eyes would be too weak and dim.  Even yourself,—­have n’t you often tried to look the sun full in the face?  Yes; and you have had to give it up and turn your face away because it hurt your eyes.  Well, his Majesty only lets the world have a glimpse of his glory.  But here we are at our journey’s end.”

With these words Marjorie felt herself brought to a gentle halt, and found herself in a place most wondrously clear and light and high, from which she could look off,—­far, far across and over and down to where something that looked like a dim ball was whirling rapidly.

“That is your earth,” whispered the sunbeam in her ear,—­“the earth that you have just left.”

Marjorie was so astounded that for a time she was unable to say a word.  Then she managed to falter out:  “But it always looked so big and bright, and now it is nothing but a horrid dark speck—­”

“That is just it, Marjorie,—­just what I said.  When you look at the world simply as a planet, it is small and dark enough, not nearly so large as some of the others you see about you; but when you look at it as a place on which God has put his people to be good and noble, to work out a beautiful purpose, then—­ But wait a moment.”

Marjorie felt a strange thrill pass through her; across her eyes swept something that felt like a caressing hand, and when she looked again everything was changed, and she seemed gazing at a wonderful sort of panorama that shifted and changed every moment, showing more lovely impressions each instant.

“What is it?” she gasped, scarcely able to speak for delight and breathless with amazement.

“Only pictures of your world as it really is.  Pictures taken by his Highness the Sun, who does not stop at the mere outer form of things, but reveals the true inwardness of them,—­what they are actually.  He does not stop with the likeness of the surface of things; he makes portraits of their hearts as well, and he always gets exact likenesses,—­he never fails.”

Marjorie felt a sudden fear steal over her at these words; she did not precisely know why, but she had a dim sort of feeling that if the sun took photographs of more than the outside of things (of the hearts as well), some of the pictures he got might not be so pretty, perhaps.  But she said nothing, and watched the scroll as it unrolled before her with a great thrill of wonderment.