The Ledger had no lines for it. What was it? Why was it
pleasant, even flattering? Why did it mitigate his discontent and
lessen the dissatisfied feeling? It passed hovering in and about his
thoughts, though uncaught by actual words; and as his mind played with
it, he felt more hopeful. He searched in vain for a definition, but,
though fruitless, the search brought comfort somehow. Something _had_
been accomplished and it was due to himself, because without his
presence it would never have been done. This hint slipped into desire,
yearning, hope--that, after all, a result _had_ perhaps been achieved,
a result he himself was not properly aware of--a result of that
incalculable spiritual kind that escapes the chains of definite
description. For he recalled--yet mortified a little the memory should
flatter--that his cousin had netted Beauty in his story, and that
Mother had spoken of living with greater carelessness and peace, and
that each had thanked him as though he were the cause.
And these memories, half thought, half feeling, were comforting and
delicious, so that he revelled in them lingeringly, and wished that
they were really true. For, if true, they were immensely significant.
Any one with a purse could build a hospital or pay an education fee,
but to be helpful because of being oneself was a vast, incalculable
power, something direct from God.
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