“Let him pick his tree!” It was the voice of Samuel Williams. “Didn't we come over here to give him one of his own trees? Give him a fair show, can't you?”
“The little lads!” Mr. Kinosling smiled. “They have their games, their outdoor sports, their pastimes. The young muscles are toughening. The sun will not harm them. They grow; they expand; they learn. They learn fair play, honour, courtesy, from one another, as pebbles grow round in the brook. They learn more from themselves than from us. They take shape, form, outline. Let them.”
“Mr. Kinosling!” Another spinster—undeterred by what had happened to Miss Beam—leaned fair forward, her face shining and ardent. “Mr. Kinosling, there's a question I DO wish to ask you.”
“My dear Miss Cosslit,” Mr. Kinosling responded, again waving his hand and watching it, “I am entirely at your disposal.”
“WAS Joan of Arc,” she asked fervently, “inspired by spirits?”
He smiled indulgently. “Yes—and no,” he said. “One must give both answers. One must give the answer, yes; one must give the answer, no.”
“Oh, THANK you!” said Miss Cosslit, blushing.
“She's one of my great enthusiasms, you know.”
“And I have a question, too,” urged Mrs. Lora Rewbush, after a moment's hasty concentration. “'I've never been able to settle it for myself, but NOW——”
“Yes?” said Mr. Kinosling encouragingly.