She had never
dreamed before that thinking can open the gates to heaven and bring
the Milky Way down into the heart. She had merely knitted stockings.
She had been practical. At last the key to her husband's being was in
her hand. That key at the same time opened a door through him, into
her own. Hitherto she had merely criticised. Oh dear! Criticism, when
she might have created!
She turned to seek him. But only her old friend was there, floating
beside her in a brilliant mist of gold and white that turned the tree-
tops into rows of Burning Bushes.
'Where is he?' she asked quickly.
'Hush!' was the instant reply; 'don't disturb him. Don't think, or
you'll bring him back. He's filling his sack in the Star Cave. Men
have to gather it,--the little store they possess is soon crystallised
into hardness by Reason,--but women have enough in themselves usually
to last a lifetime. They are born with it.'
'Mine crystallised long ago, I fear.'
'Care and anxiety did that. You neglected it a little. But your
husband's cousin has cleaned the channels out. He does it
unconsciously, but he does it. He has belief and vision like a child,
and therefore turns instinctively to children because they keep it
alive in him, though he hardly knows why he seeks them. The world,
too, is a great big child that is crying for its Fairyland.
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