'It's difficult to tell in a few words, you see,' he began, the
enthusiasm of a boy in his manner, 'but--I woke with the odd idea that
this little village might be an epitome of the world. All the emotions
of London, you see, are here in essence--the courage and cowardice,
the fear and hope, the greed and sacrifice, the love and hate and
passion--everything. It's the big world in miniature. Only--with one
difference.'
'That's good,' said Rogers, trying to remember when it was he had told
his cousin this very thing. Or had he only _thought_ it? 'And what
_is_ the difference?'
'The difference,' continued the other, eyes sparkling, face alight,
'that here the woods, the mountains and the stars are close. They pour
themselves in upon the village life from every side--above, below, all
round. Flowers surround it; it dances to the mountain winds; at night
it lies entangled in the starlight. Along a thousand imperceptible
channels an ideal simplicity from Nature pours down into it, modifying
the human passions, chastening, purifying, uplifting. Don't you see?
And these sweet, viewless channels--who keeps them clean and open?
Why, God bless you----. The children! _My_ children!'
'By Jingo, yes; _your_ children.'
Rogers said it with emphasis. But there was a sudden catch at his
heart; he was conscious of a queer sensation he could not name.
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