"And succeeding, if I may believe what I see and hear and read," he said, with an expressive little wave of the book as he laid it down before her.
"My diary! I didn't know I had lost it. Where did you find it?"
"By the brook where I stopped to rest. The moment I saw your name I shut it up. Forgive me, but I can't ask pardon for reading a few pages of that little gospel of patience, love, and self-denial."
She gave him a reproachful look, and hurried the telltale book out of sight as she said, with a momentary shadow on her face,—
"It has been a hard task; but I think I have learned it, and am just beginning to find that my dream is 'a noonday light and truth,' to me."
"Then you do not relinquish your hopes, and lay down your tools?" he asked, with some eagerness.
"Never! I thought at first that I could not serve two masters, but in trying to be faithful to one I find I am nearer and dearer to the other. My cares and duties are growing lighter every day (or I have learned to bear them better), and when my leisure does come I shall know how to use it, for my head is full of ambitious plans, and I feel that I can do something now."
All the old enthusiasm shone in her eyes, and a sense of power betrayed itself in voice and gesture as she spoke.
"I believe it," he said heartily. "You have learned the secret, as that proves."
Psyche looked at the childish image as he pointed to it, and into her face there came a motherly expression that made it very sweet.