On the one hand are the stolid and placid, and on the other are the
brutal and cruel and selfish and unrestrained."

"You confuse me greatly," I said; "surely you do not mean that spiritual
life and progress are a matter of intellectual energy?"

"No, not at all," said he; "the so-called intellectual people are often
the most stupid and youngest of all. The intellect counts for nothing:
that is only a kind of dexterity, a pretty game. The imagination is what
matters."

"Worse and worse!" I said. "Does salvation belong to poets and
novelists?"

"No, no," said Amroth, "that is a game too! The imagination I speak of
is the power of entering into other people's minds and hearts, of
putting yourself in their place--of loving them, in fact. The more you
know of people, the better chance there is of loving them; and you can
only find your way into their minds by imaginative sympathy. I will
tell you a story which will show you what I mean. There was once a
famous writer on earth, of whose wisdom people spoke with bated breath.
Men went to see him with fear and reverence, and came away, saying, 'How
wonderful!' And this man, in his age, was waited upon by a little maid,
an ugly, tired, tiny creature. People used to say that they wondered he
had not a better servant. But she knew all that he liked and wanted,
where his books and papers were, what was good for him to do. She did
not understand a word of what he said, but she knew both when he had
talked too much, and when he had not talked enough, so that his mind was
pent up in itself, and he became cross and fractious. Now, in reality,
the little maid was one of the oldest and most beautiful of spirits. She