had lived many lives, each apparently humbler than the last. She never
grumbled about her work, or wanted to amuse herself. She loved the silly
flies that darted about her kitchen, or brushed their black heads on
the ceiling; she loved the ivy tendrils that tapped on her window in the
breeze. She did not go to church, she had no time for that; or if she
had gone, she would not have understood what was said, though she would
have loved all the people there, and noticed how they looked and sang.
But the wise man himself was one of the youngest and stupidest of
spirits, so young and stupid that he had to have a very old and wise
spirit to look after him. He was eaten up with ideas and vanity, so that
he had no time to look at any one or think of anybody, unless they
praised him. He has a very long pilgrimage before him, though he wrote
pretty songs enough, and his mortal body, or one of them, lies in the
Poets' Corner of the Abbey, and people come and put wreaths there with
tears in their eyes."

"It is very bewildering," I said, "but I see a little more than I did.
It is all a matter of feeling, then? But it seems hard on people that
they should be so dull and stupid about it all,--that the truth should
lie so close to their hand and yet be so carefully concealed."

"Oh, they grow out of dulness!" he said, with a movement of his hand;
"that is what experience does for us--it is always going on; we get
widened and deepened. Why," he added, "I have seen a great man, as they
called him, clever and alert, who held a high position in the State. He
was laid aside by a long and painful illness, so that all his work was
put away. He was brave about it, too, I remember; but he used to think
to himself how sad and wasteful it was, that when he was most energetic
and capable he should be put on the shelf--all the fine work he might
have done interrupted; all the great speeches he would have made