measureless generosity and gloried in it as though him-
self had been the flinger of that largesse. And was he
not? Did the sunlight not stream from his head and
life from his finger-tips? Surely the well-being that was
in him did bubble out to an activity beyond the universe.
Thought! Oh! the petty thing! but motion! emotion!
these were the realities. To feel, to do, to stride for-
ward in elation chanting a paean of triumphant life!

After a time he felt hungry, and thrusting his hand
into his wallet he broke off a piece of one of his cakes
and looked about for a place where he might happily
eat it. By the side of the road there was a well; just a
little corner filled with water. Over it was a rough stone
coping, and around, hugging it on three sides almost from
sight, were thick, quiet bushes. He would not have no-
ticed the well at all but for a thin stream, the breadth of
two hands, which tiptoed away from it through a field.
By this well he sat down and scooped the water in his
hand and it tasted good.

He was eating his cake when a sound touched his ear
from some distance, and shortly a woman came down
the path carrying a vessel in her hand to draw water.

She was a big, comely woman, and she walked as one who
had no misfortunes and no misgivings. When she saw
the Philosopher sitting by the well she halted a moment
in surprise and then came forward with a good-humoured
smile.