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Heriot's Choice

<h2>CHAPTER XXXII</h2> <h3>A TALK IN FAIRLIGHT GLEN</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> O finer far! What work so high as mine, Interpreter betwixt the world and man, Nature's ungathered pearls to set and shrine, The mystery she wraps her in to scan; Her unsyllabic voices to combine, And serve her with such love as poets can; With mortal words, her chant of praise to bind, Then die, and leave the poem to mankind?' </div> <div class="stanza"> Jean Ingelow. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> Dr. Heriot did not stay long in London; as soon as his mission was accomplished he set his face resolutely homewards. Christmas was fast approaching, and it was necessary to make arrangements for Roy's removal to Hastings, and after much discussion and a plentiful interchange of letters between the cottage and the vicarage, it was finally settled that Mildred and Richard should remain with the invalid until Olive and Mr. Lambert should take their place. Mr. Lambert was craving for a sight of his boy, but he could not feel justified in devolving his duties on his curate until after the Epiphany, nor would Olive consent to leave him; so Mildred bravely stifled her homesick longings, and kept watch over the young lovers, smiling to herself over Roy's boyishness and Polly's fruitless efforts after staidness. From the low bow-window jutting on to the beach, in the quiet corner where Richard had found them lodgings, she would often sit following the young pair with softly amused eyes as they stood hand in hand with the waves lapping to their feet; at the first streak of sunset they would come slowly up the shore. Roy still tall and gaunt, but with a faint tinge of returning health in his face; Polly fresh and blooming as a rose, and trying hard to stay her dancing feet to fit his feeble paces. 'What have you done with Richard, children?' Mildred would ask as usual. 'Dick? ah, he decamped long ago, with the trite and novel observation that "two are company and three none." We saw him last in the midst of an admiring crowd of fishermen. Dick always knows when he is not wanted, eh, Polly?' 'I am afraid we treat him very badly,' returned Polly, blushing. Roy threw himself down on the couch with a burst of laughter. His mirth had hardly died away when his brother entered. 'You have got back, Roy—that's right. I was just going in search of you. There is a treacherous wind this evening. You were standing still ever so long after I left you.' 'That comes of you leaving us, you see,' replied Roy, slyly. 'It took us just half an hour to discover the reason of your abrupt departure.' Richard's eyes twinkled with dry humour. 'One must confess to being bored at times. Keppel was far more entertaining company than you and Polly. When I am in despair for a little sensible conversation I must come to Aunt Milly.' Aunt Milly was the universal sympathiser, as usual. Richard's patience would have been sorely put to proof, but for those grave-toned talks in the wintry twilights, with which the gray sea and sky seemed so strangely to harmonise. In spite of his unselfishness, the sight of his brother's happiness could not fail to elicit at times a disturbing sense of contrast. Who could tell what years rolled between him and the fruition of his hope? 'In patience and confidence must be your strength, Richard,' Mildred once said, as they stood looking over the dim waste of waters, gray everywhere, save where the white lips touched the shore; behind them was the dark Castle Hill; windy flickers of light came from the esplanade; far out to sea a little star trembled and wavered like the timid pioneer of unknown light; a haze of uncertainty bordered earth and sky; the soft wash of the insidious waves was tuneful and soothing as a lullaby. The neutral tints, the colourless conditions, neither light nor dark, even the faint wrapping mist that came like a cloud from the sea, harmonised with Mildred's feelings as she quoted the text softly. An irrepressible shiver ran through the young man's frame. Waiting, did he not know what was before him—years of uncertainty, of alternate hopes and fears. 'Yes, I know,' he replied, with an accent of impatience in his voice. 'You are right, of course; one can only wait. As for patience, it is hardly an attribute of youth; one learns it by degrees, but all the same, uncertainty and these low gray skies oppress one. Sea-fog does not enhance cheerfulness, Aunt Milly. Let us go in.' Richard's moods of discontent were brief and rare. He was battling bravely with his disappointment. He had always been grave and staid beyond his years, but now faintly-drawn lines were plainly legible in the smooth forehead, and a steady concentrated light in the brown eyes bore witness to abiding and careful thought. At times his brother's unreasoning boyishness seemed almost to provoke him; want of earnestness was always a heinous sin in his judgment. Roy more than once winced under some unpalatable home-truth which Richard uttered in all good faith and with the best intentions in the world. 'Dick is the finest fellow breathing, but if he would only leave off sermonising until he is ordained,' broke out Roy, with a groan, when he and Mildred were alone; but Mildred was too well aware of their affection for each other to be made uneasy by any petulance on Roy's part. He would rail at his brother's advice, and then most likely digest and follow it; but she gave Richard a little hint once. 'Leave them alone; their happiness is still so new to them,' pleaded the softhearted woman. 'You can't expect Rex to look beyond the present yet, now Polly is with him—when he is stronger he will settle down to work.' And though Richard shook his head a little incredulously, he wisely held his peace. But he would have bristled over with horror and amazement if he had known half of the extravagant daydreams and plans which Roy was for ever pouring into Aunt Milly's ear. Roy, who was as impetuous in his love-making as in other things, could not be made to understand that there was any necessity for waiting; that Polly should be due north while he was due south was clearly an absurdity to his mind, and he would argue the point until Mildred was fairly bewildered. 'Rex, my dear boy, do be reasonable,' she pleaded once; 'what would Richard say if he heard you? You must give up this daft scheme of yours; it is contrary to all common sense. Why, you have never earned fifty pounds by your painting yet.' 'Excuse me, Aunt Milly, but it is so difficult to make women see anything in a business point of view,' replied the invalid, somewhat loftily. 'Polly understands me, of course, but she is an exception to the general rule. I defy any one—even you, Aunt Milly—to beat Polly in common sense.' 'He means, of course, if his picture be sold,' returned Polly, sturdily, who feared nothing in the world but separation from Roy. She was ready to eat bread and cheese cheerfully all her life, she thought. Both young people were in the hazy atmosphere of all youthful lovers, when a crust appears a picturesque and highly desirable food, and rent and taxes and all such contemptible items are delusions of the evil one, fostered in the brain of careful parents. 'Of course Rex only means if his picture sells at a good price. He will then be sure of work from the dealers.' 'There, I told you so,' repeated Roy, triumphantly, 'as though Polly did not know the ups and downs of an artist's life better than you, or even me, Aunt Milly. It is not as though we expected champagne and silk dresses, and all sorts of unnecessary luxuries.' 'Or velvet coats,' quietly added Mildred, and Roy looked a little crestfallen. 'Aunt Milly, how can you be so unkind, so disagreeable?' cried Polly, with a little burst of indignation. 'I shall wear print dresses or cheap stuff. There was such a pretty one at sevenpence-halfpenny the yard, at Oliver's; but of course Rex must have his velvet coat, it looks so well on an artist, and suits him so. I would not have Roy look shabby and out of elbows, like Dad Fabian, for the world.' 'You would look very pretty in a print dress, Polly, I don't doubt,' returned Roy, a little sadly; 'but Aunt Milly is right, and it would not match my velvet coat. We must be consistent, as Richard says.' 'Cashmere is not so very dear, and it wears splendidly,' returned Polly, in the tone of one elated by a new discovery, 'and with a fresh ribbon now and then I shall look as well as I do now. You don't suppose I mean to be a slattern if we are ever so poor. But you shall have your velvet coat, if I have to pawn the watch Dr. Heriot gave me.' And Roy's answer was not meant for Mildred to hear. Mildred felt as though she were turning the page of some story-book as she listened to their talk. How charmingly unreal it all sounded; how splendidly coloured with youth and happiness. After all, they were not ambitious. The rooms at the little cottage at Frognal bounded all their desires. The studio with the cross light and faded drapery, the worn couch and little square piano, was to be their living room. Polly was to work and sing, while Roy painted. Dull! how could they be dull when they had each other? Polly would go to market, and prepare dainty little dishes out of nothing; she would train flowers round the porch and under the windows, and keep chickens in the empty coop by the arbour. With plenty of eggs and fresh vegetables, their expenses would be trifling. Dugald had taught Rex to make potato soup and herring salad. Why, he and Dugald had spent he did not know how little a week, and of course his father would help him. Polly was penniless and an orphan, and it was his duty to work for her as well as for himself. Mildred wondered what Dr. Heriot would think of the young people's proposition. As Polly was under age he had a voice in the matter, but she held her peace on this subject. After all, it was only a daydream—a very pleasant picture. She was conscious of a vague feeling of regret that things could not be as they planned. Roy was boyish and impulsive, but Polly might be trusted, she thought. Every now and then there was a little spirit of shrewdness and humour in the girl's words that bubbled to the surface. 'Roy will always be wanting to buy new books and new music, but I shall punish him by liking the old ones best,' she said, with a laugh. 'And no more boxes of cigarettes, or bottles of lavender-water; and oh, Rex, you know your extravagance in gloves.' 'I shall only wear them on Sundays,' replied Roy, virtuously, 'and I shall smoke pipes—an honest meerschaum after all is more enjoyable, and in the evenings we will take long walks towards Hendon or Barnet. Polly is a famous walker, and on fine Sundays we will go to Westminister Abbey, or St. Paul's, or some of the grand old city churches; one can hear fine music at the Foundling, and at St. Andrew's, Wells Street Polly does not know half the delights of living in London.' 'She will know it in good time,' returned Mildred, softly. She would not take upon herself to damp their expectations; in a little while they would learn to be reasonable. In the meanwhile she indulged in the petting that was with her as a second nature. But it was a relief when her brother and Olive arrived; she had no idea how much she had missed them, until she caught sight of her brother's bowed figure and gray head, and Olive's grave, sallow face beside it. It was an exciting evening. Mr. Lambert was overjoyed at seeing his son again, though much shocked at the still visible evidences of past suffering. Polly was warmly welcomed with a fatherly blessing, and he was so much occupied with the young pair, that Mildred was at liberty to devote herself to Olive. She followed her into her room ostensibly to assist in unpacking, but they soon fell into one of their old talks. 'Dear Olive,' she said, kissing her, 'you don't know how good it is to see you again. I never believed I could miss you so much.' 'You have not missed me half so much as I have you,' returned Olive, blushing with surprised pleasure. 'I always feel so lost without you, Aunt Milly. When I wanted you very badly—more than usual, I mean—I used to go into your room and think over all the comforting talks we have had together, and then try and fancy what you would tell me to do in such and such cases.' 'Dear child, that was drawing from a very shallow well. I remember I told you to fold up all your perplexities in your letters, and I would try and unravel them for you; but I see you were afraid of troubling me.' 'That was one reason, certainly; but I had another as well. I could not forget what you told me once about the bracing effects of self-decision in most circumstances, and how you once laughingly compared me to Mr. Ready-to-Halt, and advised me to throw away my crutches.' 'In other words, solving your own difficulties; certainly I meant what I said. Grown-up persons are so fond of thinking for young people, instead of training them to think for themselves, and then they are surprised that the brain struggles so slowly from the swaddling-bands that they themselves have wrapped round them.' 'It was easier than I thought,' returned Olive, slowly; 'at first I tormented myself in my old way, and was tempted to renew my arguments about conflicting duties, till I remembered there must be a right and wrong in everything, or at least by comparison a better way.' 'Why, you have grown quite a philosopher, Olive; I shall be proud of my pupil,' and Mildred looked affectionately at her niece. What a noble-looking woman Olive would be, she thought. True, the face was colourless, and the features far too strongly marked for beauty; but the mild, dark eyes and shadowy hair redeemed it from plainness, and the speaking, yet subdued, intelligence that lingered behind the hesitating speech produced a pleasing impression; yet Mildred, who knew the face so well, fancied a shadow of past or present sadness tinged the even gravity that was its prevailing expression. Olive's thoughts unfolded slowly like flowers—they always needed the sunshine of sympathy; a keen breath, the light mockery of incredulity, killed them on the spot. Now of her own accord she began to speak of the young lovers. 'How happy dear Roy looks; Polly is just suited for him. Do you know, Aunt Milly, I had a sort of presentiment of this, it always seemed to me that she and Dr. Heriot were making believe to like each other.' 'I think Dr. Heriot was tolerably in earnest, Olive.' 'Of course he meant to be; but I always thought there was too much benevolence for the right thing; and as for Polly—oh, it was easy to see that she only tried to be in love—it quite tired her out, the trying I mean, and made her cross and pettish with us sometimes.' 'I never gave you credit for so much observation.' 'I daresay not,' returned Olive, simply, 'only one wakes up sometimes to find things are turning out all wrong. Do you know they puzzled me to-night—Rex and Polly, I mean. I expected to find them so different, and they are just the same.' 'How do you mean? I should think it would be difficult to find two happier creatures anywhere; they behave as most young people do under the circumstances, are never willingly out of each other's sight, and talk plenty of nonsense.' 'That is just what I cannot make out; it seems such a solemn and beautiful thing to me, that I cannot understand treating it in any other way. Why, they were making believe to quarrel just now, and Polly was actually pouting.' Mildred with difficulty refrained from a smile. 'They do that just for the pleasure of making it up again. If you could see them this moment you would find them like a pair of cooing doves; it will be "Poor Rex!" and "Dear Rex!" all the evening. There is no doubt of his affection for her, Olive; it nearly cost his life.' 'That is only an additional reason for treating it seriously. If any one cared for me in that way,' went on Olive, blushing slightly over her words—'not that I could believe such a thing possible,' interrupting herself. 'Why not, you very wise woman?' asked her aunt, amused by this voluntary confession. Never before had Olive touched on this threadbare and oft-maligned subject of love. 'Aunt Milly, as though you could speak of such a thing as probable!' returned Olive, with a slight rebuke in her voice. 'Putting aside plainness, and want of attraction, and that sort of thing, do you think any man would find me a helpmeet?' 'He must be the right sort of man, of course,'—'a direct opposite to you in everything,' she was about to add, but checked herself. 'But if the right sort is not to be found, Aunt Milly?' with a touch of quaintness that at times tinged her gravity with humour. 'Didn't you know "Much-Afraid" was an old maid?' 'We must get rid of all these old names, Olive; they will not fit now.' 'All the same, of course I know these things are not possible with me. Imagine being a wet blanket to a man all his life! But what I was going to say was, that if any one cared for me as Rex does for Polly, I should think it the next solemn thing to death—quite as beautiful and not so terrible. Fancy,' warming with the visionary subject, 'just fancy, Aunt Milly, being burdened with the whole happiness and well-being of another—never to think alone again!' 'Dear Olive, you cannot expect all lovers to indulge in these metaphysics; commonplace minds remain commonplace—the Divinities are silent within them.' 'I think this is why I dislike the subject introduced into general conversation,' replied Olive, pondering heavily over her words; 'people are for ever dragging it in. So-and-so is to be married next week, and then a long description of the bride's trousseau and the bridesmaids' dresses; the idea is as paganish as the undertaker's plume of feathers and mutes at a funeral.' 'I agree with you there; people almost always treat the subject coarsely, or in a matter-of-fact way. A wedding-show is a very pretty thing to outsiders, but, like you, Olive, I have often marvelled at the absence of all solemnity.' 'I suppose it jars upon me more than on others because I dislike talking on what interests me most. I think sacred things should be treated sacredly. But how I am wandering on, and there was so much I wanted to tell you!' 'Never mind, I will hear it all to-morrow. I must not let you fatigue yourself after such a journey. Now I will finish the unpacking while you sit and rest yourself.' Olive was too docile and too really weary to resist. She sat silently watching Mildred's brisk movements, till the puzzled look in the dark eyes passed into drowsiness. 'The Eternal voice,' she murmured, as she laid her head on the pillow, and Mildred bade her good-night, 'it seems to lull one into rest, though a tired child would sleep without rocking listening to it;' and so the slow, majestic washing of the waves bore her into dreamland. Mildred did not find an opportunity of resuming the conversation until the following afternoon, when Richard had planned a walk to Fairlight Glen, in which Polly reluctantly joined; but Mildred, who knew Roy and his father had much to say to each other, had insisted on not leaving her behind. She was punished by having a very silent companion all the way, as Richard had carried off Olive; but by and by Polly's conscience pricked her for ill-humour and selfishness, and when they reached the Glen, her hand stole into Mildred's muff with a penitent squeeze, and her spirits rising with the exhilaration of the long walk, she darted off in pursuit of Olive and brought her back, while she offered herself in her place to Richard. 'You have monopolised her all the way, and I know she is dying for a talk with Aunt Milly; you must put up with me instead,' said the little lady, defiantly. Mildred and Olive meanwhile seated themselves on one of the benches overlooking the Glen; the spot was sheltered, and the air mild and soft for January; there were patches of cloudy blue to be seen through the leafless trees, which looked like a procession of gray, hoary skeletons in the hazy light. 'Woods have a beauty of their own in winter,' observed Mildred, as she noticed Olive's satisfied glance round her. Visible beauty always rested her, Olive often said. 'Its attraction is the attraction of death,' returned her companion, thoughtfully. 'Look at these old giants waiting for their resurrection, to be "clothed upon," that is just the expression, Aunt Milly.' 'With their dead hopes at their feet; you are teaching me to be poetical, Olive. Don't you love the feeling of those crisp yellow leaves crunching softly under one's feet? I think a leaf-race in a high wind is one of the most delicious things in nature.' 'Ask Cardie what he thinks of that.' 'Cardie would say we are talking highflown nonsense. I can never make him share my admiration for that soft gray light one sees in winter. I remember we were walking over Hillsbottom one lovely February afternoon; the shades of the landscape were utterly indescribable, half light, and yet so softly blended, the gray tone of the buildings was absolutely warm—that intense grayness—and all I could get him to say was, that Kirkby Stephen was a very ugly town.' 'Roy is more sympathetic about colours; Cardie likes strong contrasts, decided sunsets, better than the glimmering of moonlight nights; he can be enthusiastic enough over some things. I have heard him talk beautifully to Ethel.' 'By the bye, you have told me nothing of her. Is she still away?' 'Yes, but they are expecting her back this week or next. It seems such a pity Kirkleatham is so often empty. Mrs. Delaware says it is quite a loss to the place.' 'It is certainly very unsatisfactory; but now about your work, Olive; how does it progress?' Olive hesitated. 'I will talk to you about that presently; there is something else that may interest you to hear. Do you know Mr. Marsden is thinking of leaving us?' Mildred uttered an expression of surprise and disappointment. 'Oh, I hope it is not true!' she reiterated, in a regretful tone. 'You say that because you do not know,' returned Olive, with her wonted soft seriousness; 'he has told me everything. Only think, Aunt Milly, he asked my advice, and really seemed to think I could help him to a decision. Fancy my helping any one to decide a difficult question,' with a smile that seemed to cover deeper feelings. 'Why not? it only means that he has recognised your earnestness and thorough honesty of purpose. There is nothing like honesty to inspire confidence, Olive. I am sure you would help him to a very wise decision.' 'I think he had already decided for himself before he came to me,' returned the girl, meditatively; 'one can always tell when a man has made up his mind to do a thing. You see he has always felt an inclination for missionary work, and this really seems a direct call.' 'You forget you have not enlightened me on the subject,' hinted Mildred, gently. 'How stupid of me, but I will begin from the beginning. Mr. Marsden told me one morning that he had had letters from his uncle, Archdeacon Champneys, one of the most energetic workers in the Bloemfontein Mission. You have read all about it, Aunt Milly, in the quarterly papers. Don't you recollect how interested we all were about it?' 'Yes, I remember. Richard seemed quite enthusiastic about it.' 'Well, the Archdeacon wrote that they were in pressing need of clergy. Look, I have the letter with me. Mr. Marsden said I might show it to you. He has marked the passage that has so impressed him.' <blockquote>'I am at my wits' end to know how to induce clergy to come out. Do you know of any priest who would come to our help? If you do, for God's sake use your influence to induce him to come. 'We want help for the Diamond Fields; Theological College Brotherhood at Middleport; Itinerating work; Settled Parochial work at Philippolis and elsewhere. 'We want men with strong hearts and active, healthy frames—men with the true missionary spirit—with fixedness of will and undaunted purpose, ready to battle against obstacles, and to endure peacefully the "many petty, prosaic, commonplace, and harassing trials" that beset a new work. If you know such an one, bid him Godspeed, and help him to find his way to us. I promise you we shall see his face as the "face of an angel."' </blockquote> 'A pressing appeal,' sighed Mildred; she experienced a vague regret she hardly understood. 'Mr. Marsden felt it to be such. Oh, I wish you had heard him talk. He said, as a boy he had always felt a drawing to this sort of work; that with his health and strength and superabundant energies he was fitter for the rough life of the colonies than for the secondary and supplementary life of an ordinary English curate. "Give me plenty of space and I could do the work of three men," and as he said it he stretched out his arms. You know his way, Aunt Milly, that makes one feel how big and powerful he is.' 'He may be right, but how we shall miss him,' returned Mildred, who had a thorough respect and liking for big, clumsy Hugh. 'Not more than he will miss us, he says. He will have it we have done him so much good; but there is one thing he feels, that Richard will soon be able to take his place. In any case he will not go until the autumn, not then if his mother be still alive.' 'Is he still so hopeless about her condition?' 'How can he be otherwise, Aunt Milly, when the doctor tells him it is only a question of time. Did you hear that he has resigned all share in the little legacy that has lately come to them? He says it will make them so comfortable that they will not need to keep their little school any longer; is it not good of him?' went on Olive, warming into enthusiasm. 'I think he has done the right thing, just what I should have expected him to do. And so you have strengthened him in his decision, Olive?' 'How could I help it?' she returned, simply. 'Can there be any life so noble, so self-denying? I told him once that I envied him, and he looked so pleased, and then the tears came into his eyes, and he seemed as though he wanted to say something, but checked himself. Do you know,' drooping her head and speaking in a deprecating tone, 'that hearing him talk like this made me feel dissatisfied with myself and—and my work?' 'Poor little nightingale! you would rather be a working bee,' observed Mildred, smiling. This was the meaning then of the shadowed brightness she had noticed last night. 'No, but somehow I could not help feeling his work was more real. The very self-sacrifice it involves sets it apart in a higher place, and then the direct blessing, Aunt Milly,' with an effort. 'What good does my poetry do to any one but myself?' 'St. Paul speaks of the diversities of gifts,' returned Mildred, soothingly. She saw that daily contact with perfect health and intense vitality and usefulness had deadened the timid and imaginative forces that worked beneath the surface in the girl's mind; a warped sense of duty or fear from the legions of her old enemies had beset her pleasure with sick loathing—for some reason or other Olive's creative work had lain idle. 'Do you recollect the talent laid up in the napkin, Olive?' 'But if it should not be a talent, rather a temptation,' whispered the girl, under her breath. 'No, I cannot believe it is that, after all, Aunt Milly, only I have got weary about it. Have I not chosen the work I liked best—the easiest, the most attractive?' 'Do you think a repulsive service would please our beneficent Creator best?' Olive was silent. Were the old shadows creeping round her again? 'Your work just now seems very small by the side of Mr. Marsden's. His vocation and consecration to a new work in some way, and by comparison, overshadows yours; perhaps, unconsciously, his words have left an unfavourable impression; you know how sensitive you are, Olive.' 'He never imagined that they could influence me.' 'No, he is the kindest-hearted being in the world, and would not willingly damp any one, but all the same he might unconsciously vaunt his work before your eyes; but before we decide on the reality or unreality of your talent, I want to recall something to your mind that this same good Bishop of Bloemfontein said in his paper on women's work. I remember how greatly I was struck with it. His exact words, as far as I can remember them, were—"that work—missionary work—demands fair health, unshattered nerves, and that general equableness of spirits which so largely depends upon the physical state. A morbid mind or conscience" (mark that, Olive) "is unfit for the work."' 'But, Aunt Milly,' blushing slightly, 'I never meant that I thought myself fit for mission work. You do not think that I would ever leave papa?' 'No, but a certain largeness of view may help us to exorcise the uneasy demon that is harassing you. You may not have Bloemfontein in your thoughts, but you may be trying to work yourself into the belief that God may be better pleased if you immolate your favourite and peculiar talent and devote yourself to some repugnant ministry of good works where you would probably do more harm than good.' 'I confess some such thoughts as these have been troubling me.' 'I read them in your eyes. So genius is given for no purpose but to be thrown aside like a useless toy. What a degradation of a sacred thing! How could you be such a traitor to your own order, Olive? This vacillating mood of yours makes me ashamed.' 'I wish you would scold me out of it, Aunt Milly; you are doing me good already. Any kind of doubt makes me positively unhappy, and I really did begin to believe that I had mistaken my vocation.' 'Olive will always be Olive as long as she lives,' returned Mildred, in a grieved tone; but as the girl shrank back somewhat pained, she hastened to say—'I think doubtfulness—the inward tremblings of the fibres of hope and fear—are your peculiar temptation. How would you repel any evil suggestion that came to you, Olive—any unmistakably bad thought, I mean?' 'I would try and shut my mind to it, not look at it,' replied Olive, warmly. 'Repel it with disdain. Well, I think I should deal with your doubts in the same way; if they will not yield after a good stand-up fight, entrench yourself in your citadel and shut the door on them. Every work of God is good, is it not?' 'The Bible says so.' 'Then yours must be good, since He has given you the power and delight in putting together beautiful thoughts for the pleasure and, I trust, the benefit of His creatures, and especially as you have dedicated it to His service. What if after all you are right?' she continued, presently, 'and if it be not the very highest work, can you not be among "the little ones" that do His will? Will not this present duty and care for your father and the small daily charities that lie on your threshold suffice until a more direct call be given to you? It may come—I do not say it will not, Olive; but I am sure that the present work is your duty now.' 'You have lifted a burden off me,' returned Olive, gratefully, and there was something in the clear shining of her eyes that echoed the truth of her words; 'it was not that I loved my work less, but that I tried not to love it. I like what you said, Aunt Milly, about being one of "His little ones."' <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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