'It was,' she said at length, 'but Bourcelles had grown into the
universe. It's a fairy-tale, but it's like a great golden fire. It
warmed my heart till my whole body seemed all heart, and I didn't know
whether to laugh or cry. It makes you see that the whole world is
_one_, and that the sun and moon and stars lie in so small and
unimportant a thing as, say, Jimbo's mischief, or Monkey's impudence,
or Jinny's backwardness and absurdity. All are in sympathy together,
as in a network, and to feel sympathy with anything, even the most
insignificant, connects you instantly with the Whole. Thought and
sympathy _are_ the Universe--they are life.'
While Mother paused for breath, her old friend smiled a curious,
meaning smile, as though she heard a thing that she had always known.
'And all of us are in the story, and all the things we _think_ are
alive and active too, because we have created them. Our thoughts
populate the world, flying everywhere to help or hinder others, you
see.'
The sound of a door opening was heard. Mother got up to go. Shafts of
light again seemed to follow her from the figure in the bed.
'Good-night,' she whispered with a full heart, while her thought ran
suddenly--'You possess the secret of life and of creation, for
suffering has taught it to you, and you have really known it always.
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