'But, we _shall_ come to it in time,' he caught another flying
sentence that reached him through the brown tangle of Monkey's hair.
It was spoken with eager emphasis. 'Does not every letter you write
begin with _dear_?....'
All that she said added something to life, it seemed, like poetry
which, he remembered, 'enriches the blood of the world.' The
selections were not idle, due to chance, but belonged to some great
Scheme, some fairy edifice she built out of the very stuff of her own
life. Oh, how utterly he understood and knew her. The poison of
intellectuality, thank heaven, was not in her, yet she created
somehow; for all she touched, with word or thought or gesture, turned
suddenly alive in a way he had never known before. The world turned
beautiful and simple at her touch....
Even the commonest things! It was miraculous, at least in its effect
upon himself. Her simplicity escaped all signs of wumbling. She had no
favourite and particular Scheme for doing good, but did merely what
was next her at the moment to be done. She _was_ good. In her little
person glowed a great enthusiasm for life. She created neighbours.
And, as the grandeur of her insignificance rose before him, his own
great Scheme for Disabled Thingumabobs that once had filled the
heavens, shrank down into the size of a mere mouse-trap that would go
into his pocket.
Pages:
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584