l been
speechless. I had gathered a tiny bunch of heather and fastened it in
my belt, and now stood, shading my eyes with my hand, as I looked
across the billowy expanse. The squire had closed his eyes, but his
face showed no trace of weariness, and I knew that he was happy.

Mother Hubbard broke the silence, as she sank back into her seat with a
little sigh, and when I sat down Webster drove slowly on.

"It is nice to think, love, that though you have gathered and taken
away a sprig of heather the landscape is still beautiful. And yet, you
know, the little flowers you have plucked gave their share of beauty to
the whole, and helped God to do His work. I think, love, that thought
encourages me when I know that the Lord may soon stretch out His hand
for me. Your little flowers have not lived in vain. Only their
neighbours will miss them, but their little world would not have been
quite as beautiful without them."

I think the squire was astonished, but he remained quite still, and I
replied:

"That is very true, dear, but the heather has never thwarted its
Maker's purpose, but has lived the life He designed, and so has
perfectly fulfilled its mission. With man, alas! it is not so. He too
often makes a sad bungle of life, and is so full of imperfections that
he cannot add much to the beauty of the landscape."

Mother Hubbard shook her head and pointed to the moors. "Yet _that_ is
very beautiful, love, isn't it?"

"It is perfect," I replied.

"Perfect, is it? Look at the little flowers at your waist. See, one
little bell has been blighted in some way, and there are several which
seem to have been eaten away in parts, and here and there some have
fallen off. I wonder if you could find a sprig, love, where every bell
and tiny leaf is perfect. Not many, I think. Yet you say the view is
perfect, though the parts are full of imperfections."

The squire opened his eyes and bent them gravely upon her, but he did
not speak, and she did not observe him.

"Ah, but, dear Mother Hubbard," I said, "the heather bells cannot help
their imperfections. The blight and the insect, the claw of bird, the
foot of beast, the hand and heel of man---how can they resist these
things? But again I say, with man it is not so. He is the master of
his destiny. He has freedom of will, and when he fails and falls and
spoils his life it is his own fault."

"Not always, love," the gentle voice replied; "perhaps not often
entir