"I had a good mother, and heard about good things from her till I was sixteen, yet somehow they have never taken a vital hold of my heart. I was thinking just now, as I looked over to those beautiful hills, how remote and serene they are, so near heaven that earth's little worries cannot touch them. I believe some people's lives are like that. My own mother's life was, but I could never attain to it."
"I don't believe in straining and climbing overmuch," said Anstice's new friend. "Thank God that He reaches down just where we are and as we are. A child has only to raise its arms to its mother. She does the lifting."
Anstice drew in a quick breath, and looked at him with glowing eyes.
"I dare say it is because I have always felt so capable, that I have never wanted to be raised," she said. "Now to-day I am feeling my own helplessness."
"It's a good attitude in our soul's affairs."
Silence fell between them. Then he began to talk about village interests. He told her his wife was an invalid, and that he was in need of an organist, for the last rector's wife had always played for the services.
"Are you musical?" he asked her. "I wonder if you could help me?"
"I can play. I always used to in our little village church at home, but I cannot promise to undertake outside work just yet. I must feel my way. May I let you know later on what I can do?"
After a little more talk, they walked back to the house together.
"May I see the children?" he asked, as walking along the terrace they heard their voices through the open library window.