"Mr. Digby, what do you mean by their eyes being not good?"
"Not seeing clearly."
"And what makes people's eyes dim to see their work?"
"A want of sensitiveness in their optic nerve," he said smiling. "It is written, you know the words—'He died for all, that they which live should not live unto themselves, but unto him who died for them'—How has it been in your case?"
"I never thought of it," Rotha answered slowly. "I believe my head has been just full of myself,—learning and enjoying."
"I do not want to check either, and the service of Christ does not check either. I am glad, after all, the enjoying has formed such a part of your experience."
"With Mrs. Mowbray, how should it not? You know her a little, Mr.
Southwode?"
"Only a little."
"But you cannot know her, for you never needed her. O such a friend as she is! Not to me only, but to whoever needs her. She goes along life with her hands full of blessings, and she is forever dropping something into somebody's lap; if it is not help, it is pleasure; if it is not a fruit, it is a flower. I never saw anybody like her. She is a very angel in the shape of a woman; and she is doing angel's work all the day long. I have seen, and I know. All sorts of help, and comfort, and cheer, and tenderness, and sympathy; and herself is the very last person' in all the world she thinks of."
"That's a pretty character," said Mr. Southwode.