"Then—according to the Scripture—you would know. But—that's undertaking a good deal. Luclarion Grapp has got there; but she has been fifty-odd years upon the road. And she has been doing real things all the time. That's what has brought her there. You can't boss the world's hard jobs till you've been a journeyman at the easy ones."
"And I've missed my apprenticeship!" said Desire, with changed voice and face, falling back into her disheartenment again.
"No!" Uncle Oldways almost shouted. "Not if you come to the Master who takes in the eleventh hour workers. And it isn't the eleventh hour with you,—child!"
He dwelt on that word "child," reminding her of her short mistaking and of the long retrieval. Her nineteen years and the forever and ever contrasted themselves before her suddenly, in the light of hope.
She turned sharply, though, to look at her duty. Her journeyman's duty of easy things.
"Must I go to Europe with my mother?" she asked again, the conversation coming round to just that with which it had begun.
"I'll talk with your mother," said Uncle Oldways, getting up and looking into his hat, as a man always does when he thinks of putting it on presently. "Good-night. I suppose you are tired enough now. I'll come again and see you."
Desire stood up and gave him her hand.
"I thank you, Uncle Titus, with all my heart."
He did not answer her a word; but he knew she meant it.