“Maybe,” she said. “No, probably. But the manual work, it seems to me, has got to be connected up in some way with–well, with higher things. I can’t think of a word to fit, because my head is so full of the ’hy’ group. You, for instance, were sawing your own orchard, and you were working for better fruit, and more beautiful trees, and a lovely home. You saw the work in its higher relations, its relations to the beauty of living.”
“And your nails?” I asked.
“I see the aqueduct of roses,” she smiled.
“You will see them, I trust,” said I. “You shall see them. You must stay till they bloom.”
Her brow suddenly clouded, and she shook her head. “I–I shall have to go back to the ’I’s,’” she said. “But I shall know the roses are here. You must send me a picture of them.”
Somehow I was less enthusiastic over the next arch, but her spirits soon came back, and she sawed the next batch of stripping with greater precision and skill in the use of the saw–and a more reckless show of stocking. “See!” she cried, “how much I’m improving! I didn’t splinter any of the ends this time!”
“Fine,” said I. “You can tackle the firewood in the orchard soon!”
We got up two more arches, working close together, intent upon our task. As each arch, with its piers, took up eight feet, and the central arch would take up twelve, we should need exactly a dozen arches to complete the trellis. Here were four of them done!
“Hooray!” cried the girl, as the fourth was finished. “How we are getting on!”
“I could never have done it alone,” said I. “You have really been a great help.”