“Do not misunderstand me.” (I had not spoken, but he often guesses my thoughts in a way that makes me thankful I have nothing to hide). “There are as many degrees of happiness as of goodness, and the perfection of either is impossible. But I have my share. Yes, truly, I have my share.”
“Of both?”
“Don't—don't!”
Nor ought I to have jested when he was in such heavy earnest.
And then for some time we were so still, that I remember hearing a large bee, deluded by the mild weather, come swinging and singing over the moor, and stop at the last, the very last, blue-bell—I dared not call it a hare-bell with Doctor Urquhart by—of the year, for his honey-supper. While he was eating it, I picked one of the flower-stalks, and stroked it softly over his great brown back and wings.
“What a child you are still!”
(But for once Doctor Urquhart was mistaken.)
“How quiet everything is here!” he added.
“Yes, that wavy purple line always reminded me of the hills in the 'Happy Valley' of Prince Kasselas. Beyond them lies the world.”
“If you knew what 'the world' is, as you must one day. But I hope you will only see the best half of it. I hope you will have a happy life.”