“Do for what?”—resuming his lazy walk. “You talk as if she were a machine. It is the way with modern reformers. Men are so many ploughs and harrows to work on ‘the classes.’ Do for what?”
Knowles flushed hotly.
“The work the Lord has left for her to do. Do you mean to say there is none to do,—you, pledged to missionary labor?”
The young man’s face colored.
“I know this street needs paving terribly, Knowles; but I don’t see a boulder in your hands. Yet the great Taskmaster does not despise the pavers. He did not give you the spirit and understanding for paving, eh, is that it? How do you know He gave this Margaret Howth the spirit and understanding of a reformer? There may be higher work for her to do.”
“Higher!” The old man stood aghast. “I know your creed, then,—that the true work for a man or a woman is that which develops their highest nature?”
Vandyke laughed.
“You have a creed-mania, Knowles. You have a confession of faith ready-made for everybody, but yourself. I only meant for you to take care what you do. That woman looks as the Prodigal Son might have done when he began to be in want, and would fain have fed himself with the husks that the swine did eat.”
Knowles got up moodily.
“Whose work is it, then?” he muttered, following the men down the street; for they walked on. “The world has waited six thousand years for help. It comes slowly,—slowly, Vandyke; even through your religion.”