It seemed, in that glimpse, so clear and
gracious,--the truth that had been puzzling her.
Easy, beautiful summer work: only to be shone upon; to lift up one's
branching life, and be--reverently--glad; to grow sweet and helpful and
good-giving, in one's turn,--could she not begin to do that? Perhaps--by
ever so little; the fruit might be but a berry, yet it might be fair and
full, after its kind; and at least some little bird might be the better
for it. All around her, too, the life of the world that had so troubled
her,--who could tell, in the tangle of green, where the good and the
gift might ripen and fall? Every little fern-frond has its seed.
Jeannie came behind her again, and called her back to the contradictory
phase of self that, with us all, is almost ready, like Peter, to deny
the true. "What are you deep in now, Les?"
"Nothing. Only--we go _down_ from here, don't we, Jeannie?"
"Yes. And a very good thing for you, too. You've been in the clouds long
enough. I shall be glad to get you to the common level again."
"You've no need to be anxious.
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