'I only know I lectured you soundly.'
'Oh! Aunt Milly, and they were such dear, wise words that you spoke, too; you told me that perhaps God had some beautiful work for me to do that my death would leave unfinished. Do you think' (speaking softly and slowly) 'that I have found my work?'
'Dear, I cannot doubt it; no one who reads those lovely verses of yours can dispute the reality of your gift. You have genius, Olive; why should I seek to hide it?'
'Thank you, Aunt Milly. Your telling me will not make me proud; you need not be afraid of that, dear. I am only so very, very grateful that I have found my voice.'
'Your voice, Olive!'
'Ah, I have made you smile; but can you fancy what a dumb person would feel if his tongue were suddenly loosed from its paralysis of silence, what a flow and a torrent of words there would be?'
'Yes, the thought has often struck me when I have read the Gospels.'
'Aunt Milly, I think I have something of the same feeling. I have always wanted to find expression for my thoughts—an outlet for them; it is a new tongue, but not an unknown one, as Mr. Marsden half hinted.'
'Three years ago this same Olive who talks so sweetly to-night was full of trouble at the thought of a new lease of life.'
'It was all my want of faith; it was weak, cowardly. I know it well after all,' in a low voice; 'to-night was worth living for. I am not sorry now, Aunt Milly.'