'Poor old soul! She's let her heart wither up instead of ripening! We must all do one or the other, Peggy, child, as we grow older. It is only the sunshine of God's presence that can mellow us thoroughly, and if people wilfully turn away from that they are bound to become shrivelled and sour. Worldly prosperity is like a strong electric light—it may bring out flowers, but it will never ripen character; so don't forget that, or ever exchange it for the true sunlight. Now come and help me to choose out which flowers to specially train for the show, and we shall just have time to stake them before dark.'
The Rector never made the mistake of continually talking down to a child's level. He spoke with Peggy exactly as he would have done with a grown-up friend, and if she could not always follow his train of thought, I think the mere effort to do so was good for her, and the older she grew, the more truly she understood and appreciated him.
It is not only when we try to amuse them that the children love us best (who has not sometimes seen the look of almost contempt in the eyes of a little one for the good-natured elder who plays the fool for his benefit?), and often the companion most cared for and sought after by a child is he who unconsciously raises the standard of the eager, growing soul.
For reasons of his own the Rector kept Peggy late that evening, and they made a little tour of the garden, selecting what they called their prize plants, putting indiarubber bands round carnation-buds to keep them from bursting, and tying up the most promising stocks and asters with a scrupulous care, working until the light had almost failed and the sky stood out yellow against the outline of the cypress-trees. It grew so dim and still in the twilight that Peggy cried out in alarm as a tall figure seemed to rise from the shadows under the dark yew-hedge, and came towards them; but peering through the gathering dusk, she recognised the face of her old friend Mr. Neville.
'John!' exclaimed the Rector, 'I thought you had been at the Abbey all this time!'
'I haven't found the courage yet,' returned the other huskily, picking a prize dahlia to pieces with a recklessness that seemed wanton in Peggy's eyes.
'Oh, Mr. Neville, is it really you? However did you get here?' she cried.
'Mayn't I know the Rector, too, Peggy? He happens to be a very old friend of mine, and I have come to see him.'
'You said you knew Father and Aunt Helen, too, but you have never been to see us,' said Peggy reproachfully. 'I'm afraid there's only Aunt Helen in to-night, but I know she'd love you to come.'
'I'm not so sure about that,' said Mr. Neville rather bitterly. 'I don't know whether I should be welcome, Peggy dear. Aunt Helen and I quarrelled once, long ago, and I doubt if she could forgive me.'