Thyrza looked up, and said, "I suppose any one living here would describe the mountain as stern and frowning. And we at Beckdale would describe it as all soft beauty,—except just at The Scaur. And both would be true."
"Yes," I said; "but no man would have a fair conception of the mountain as a whole, unless he had gained at least a glimpse of both sides,—not to speak of other sides also which we have not seen yet."
Then we rose and continued our walk. Thyrza seemed thoughtful still. She observed, after a while, as if carrying on our talk—
"Don't you think that sometimes people seem to see only one side of—" she hesitated, lowering her voice reverently,—"of Christ? I mean, even those who do really love and obey Him?"
"My dear, ninety-nine hundredths of the errors into which most of us fall, spring from one-sided views of Him," I said. "For He is THE TRUTH. One-sided views of Him are one-sided views of Truth: and a one-sided view is always a defective view."
"And isn't there any help—any cure?" she asked.
"Only in Him. He gives us clearer eyesight, and then He shows Himself more clearly,—if we are willing," I said. "But a great many people are so well content with what they already see, as really to care little for seeing farther."
"Sir Keith often says that very much depends on our willingness," Thyrza observed gravely.
I could not but remember the first time I had seen Sir Keith. He had put the thought into my head.
We went on to the end of the Pass, the last part of our way being a sharp descent, till we reached the pretty river which begins as a streamlet on the central ridge or highest point of the Pass. There for a while we rested, and there, to Thyrza's joy, she discovered a fine plant of Parsley fern, growing half under a sheltering rock. My "find" of last summer died long ago, as Thyrza then predicted. "But I shall keep this for my own," she said.