"Still all the day the iron wheels go onward,
Grinding life down from its mark;
And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward,
Spin on blindly in the dark."
"She declares there is not anybody in the world she likes better than she does you—nor so well."
Mrs. Powle's fair curls hung on either side of a perplexed face. Mr. Carlisle stood opposite to her. His eye brightened and fired, but he made no answer.
"It is only her absurd fanaticism that makes all the trouble."
"There will be no trouble to fear, my dear madam, if that is true."
"Well I asked her the question, and she told me in so many words; and you know Eleanor. What she says she means."
Mr. Carlisle was silent, and Mrs. Powle went on. He was seldom loquacious in his consultations with her.
"For all that, she is just as fixed in her ways as a mountain; and I don't know how to manage her. Eleanor always was a hard child to manage; and now she has got these fanatical notions in her head she is worse than ever."
There was a slight perceptible closing in of the fingers of Mr.
Carlisle's hand, but his words were quiet.
"Do not oppose them. Fanaticism opposed grows rigid, and dies a martyr. Let her alone; these things will all pass away by and by. I am not afraid of them."