d
patience that which has been revealed to them; servants are they of the
Ideal, and their ministry is their exceeding great reward. So long as
they see clearly, it is small matter to them that their message is
rejected, the mighty consolation which they bring refused; their joy
does not hang on acceptance or rejection at the hands of their fellows.
The only real losers are those who will not see nor hear. It is not
the light-bringer who suffers when the torch is torn from his hands; it
is those whose paths he would lighten.

And more and more, as the days went by, Rosalind and I found the life
of the Forest stealing into our old home. The old monotony was gone;
the old weariness and depression crossed our threshold no more. If
work was pressing, we were always looking through and beyond it; we saw
the fine results that were being accomplished in it; we recognised the
high necessity which imposed it. If perplexities and cares sat with us
at the fireside, we received them as friends; for in the light of Arden
had we not seen their harsh masks removed, and behind them the
benignant faces of those who patiently serve and minister, and receive
no reward save fear and avoidance and misconception? In fact, having
lived in Arden, and with the consciousness that we might seek shelter
there as in another and securer home, the world barely touched us, save
to awaken our sympathies and to evoke our help. It had little to give
us; we had much to give it. There was within and about us a peace and
joy which were not for us alone. Our little home was folded within
impalpable walls, and beyond it lay a vision of green foliage and
golden masses of cloud that never faded off the horizon. There were
benignant presences in our rooms visible to no eyes but ours; for our
Arden friends did not forsake us. There were memories between us which
made all our days beautiful with the consciousness of immortal faith
and love; there were hopes which, like celestial beings, looked upon us
with eyes deep with unspeakable prophecy as they waited at the doors of
the future.

It is an autumn afternoon, and the sun lies warm on the ripening vines
that cover the wall, and on the late flowers that bloom by the
roadside. As I write these words I look up from my portfolio, and
Rosalind sits there, work in hand, smiling at me over her flying
needle. My glance rests on her a moment, and a strange uncertainty
comes over me. Have I really been in