"Tell me a little more what you mean, Connie."
"Well, this night now, this dark, frozen, lifeless night, which you have been describing to me, isn't like God at all—is it?"
"No, it is not. I see what you mean now."
"It is just as if he had gone away and said, 'Now you shall see what you can do without me.'
"Something like that. But do you know that English people—at least I think so—enjoy the changeful weather of their country much more upon the whole than those who have fine weather constantly? You see it is not enough to satisfy God's goodness that he should give us all things richly to enjoy, but he must make us able to enjoy them as richly as he gives them. He has to consider not only the gift, but the receiver of the gift. He has to make us able to take the gift and make it our own, as well as to give us the gift. In fact, it is not real giving, with the full, that is, the divine, meaning of giving, without it. He has to give us to the gift as well as give the gift to us. Now for this, a break, an interruption is good, is invaluable, for then we begin to think about the thing, and do something in the matter ourselves. The wonder of God's teaching is that, in great part, he makes us not merely learn, but teach ourselves, and that is far grander than if he only made our minds as he makes our bodies."
"I think I understand you, papa. For since I have been ill, you would wonder, if you could see into me, how even what you tell me about the world out of doors gives me more pleasure than I think I ever had when I could go about in it just as I liked."
"It wouldn't do that, though, you know, if you hadn't had the other first. The pleasure you have comes as much from your memory as from my news."
"I see that, papa."
"Now can you tell me anything in history that confirms what I have been saying?"
"I don't know anything about history, papa. The only thing that comes into my head is what you were saying yourself the other day about Milton's blindness."