"It is true," I answered; "but some of us find our salvation in the
actual work, and earn our bread better in this than in any other
way. No man is dependent on our earning, all men on our work. We
are 'rich beyond the dreams of avarice' because we have all that we
need, and yet we taste the life and poverty of the very poor. We
are, if you will, uncloistered monks, preaching friars who speak
not with the tongue, disciples who hear the wise words of a silent
master."

"Robert Louis Stevenson was a roadmender," said the wise parson.

"Ay, and with more than his pen," I answered. "I wonder was he
ever so truly great, so entirely the man we know and love, as when
he inspired the chiefs to make a highway in the wilderness. Surely
no more fitting monument could exist to his memory than the Road of
Gratitude, cut, laid, and kept by the pure-blooded tribe kings of
Samoa."

Parson nodded.

"He knew that the people who make no roads are ruled out from
intelligent participation in the world's brotherhood." He filled
his pipe, thinking the while, then he held out his pouch to me.

"Try some of this baccy," he said; "Sherwood of Magdalen sent it me
from some outlandish place."

I accepted gratefully. It was such tobacco as falls to the lot of
few roadmenders.