o, 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
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 move