“I am never weary of watching the continually varying effects of light and shade on it. And yet, how loath I was to settle in this place! But, directly I saw that hill, with its steep, chalky sides, its patches of short turf, its fringe of beeches at the top, and its kilns and lime-burners’ cottages at the base, with the steep bridle-roads and sheep-tracks winding up it, I felt, ‘That hill is my fate: there must be a fresh air blowing over it, a fine view from it; and, with God’s blessing, it may make me wiser, healthier, and happier than I am now.’”
“It hasn’t made you healthier, though,” said Phillis.
“O yes, Phillis, it did. For a long while after I came here, I used to walk to it, and at length up it, every day. At first, I was surprised to find how steep and long the road was, even to its foot.”
“Oh, it’s a goodish step,” said Phillis.
“But I thought nothing of it afterwards,” said I. “At first I used to call it (to myself), the Hill Difficulty. After that, the Hill of Conquered Wishes.”
“Because you couldn’t get to the top,” suggested Phillis.
“Not only that. There were a good many things I wished altered—things that I could not alter for myself, and that I did not feel quite sure it would be right to pray to God to alter.”
“Such as puddles and miry bits of road,” said Phillis.
“No, not things of that sort. And so I used to think them over, as I walked up that hill, and struggle with myself to take them kindly, humbly, and submissively, as they were, such seeming to be God’s will; and at length I succeeded.”
“That was a good job,” said Phillis.