"There's your steamer again," she exclaimed. "It's almost gone."
It came to him vividly, with her conscious refusal to follow his leading, that he was not having a care; and he added in haste: "I can see the tragic significance of such a decision, now that I am no longer a stranger—this putting away of all your old life—your father and mother. Think what it means to them! Life has many facets: we've got to look at them all."
"Yes," she said slowly, as if she were looking at them all in turn; then she continued: "But if we study them too closely, isn't there danger of being simply irresolute and accomplishing nothing?"
"To crown the present hour—might that not be the hardest, and therefore the noblest, task?" he asked smilingly. "A nature that is overwhelmed by its first disappointment will not be likely to succeed in any path. That is not yours, I am sure."
"It is easy for you to say that," she answered, with a touch of impatience; "you have found your chosen work; I must stay at home. What can we women in seaports do? We tremble through storms, and then wait in fear for the marine news." She laughed at her own exaggeration.
"It makes strong, hopeful women," he declared stoutly.
"Is that all you ask of your work—to be made strong and hopeful?" she demanded. "It makes me think of life as a gymnasium."
"No," he answered frankly; "but I have not found my chosen work, or, rather, my chosen field."
"May I ask what that is? Do you mind telling me?"
"I shall be glad," he replied. "It is simply to work among the poor in a large town or city. I cannot go among the little children of the crowded streets without a heartache. That is where my work calls me. I love the people of Blackwater, and I can be happy there when I can forget for a time; but I am not needed. Sometimes I feel that no one is needed, they are so firmly fixed in their beliefs, so hopelessly certain of themselves. But the little children of the crowded streets!" He broke off suddenly.