ut for a moment, out of the darkness of his own course into
the radiance within its orbit. To the diffident this is an especial
grace. For children by some deeper intuition understand us as their
parents cannot do; and when all the world is cold will often smile upon
us with happy upturned faces. It is one of my consolations that the
little players in the parks come running to me rather than to others
with their eternal question after the exact hour of day. For I reflect
that though my face grows wrinkled and drawn with years, there must yet
hover something about its ugly surface which tells of a good will
within. There was a time when I found the children's question
importunate, and drew out my watch ungraciously; but now I feel
disappointment if during their hours of play I can walk my mile without
answering one of these high-pitched inquiries.

To have the confidence of children is indeed a thing of which a poor
wanderer may be proud, a credential confirming his self-respect, and
worthy one day to be presented at the gate of heaven. Once during one of
my worst hours of desolation, when I was tramping across the fields, I
found a little maid of seven picking primroses on the edge of an old
orchard. For some time I stood watching, so charmed with the grace of
her movements and the beauty of the spring sunlight on her golden mane,
that I lost all consciousness of present trouble, and beyond her fairy
form began to see vague visions of lost happiness returning. As I stood
thus forgetful and looking absently before me, I suddenly felt a touch
which recalled my scattered thoughts: she had come to me and put her
hand in mine. I think in all my lonely life I never felt so swift a
thankfulness as that which suffused me then: the memory of it is always
with me, and now I never see a happy child engrossed in its little task
of duty or pleasure without thinking to myself there is one of those who
truly have power to remit sins. I will not repeat the fond things often
written about children. Not all of them are like the infant angels of
Bellini or Filippino Lippi or Carpaccio; some indeed are strident, pert,
without charm or candour, not doves but little jays; but for the
loveliness of those who have smiled upon me, whether rich or poor,
whether wild or tended flowers, I shall ever hold the whole company
dear.

Whether I read or write, or go painfully upon difficult paths of
thought, like many other men whom the world dismays, I