nt on, "I think is
one of the noblest words in the world; but it cannot be rendered
servilely. It must be free, from the heart."

"You make nice distinctions. Service, I suppose you mean, of one's
fellow creatures?"

"No," said Lois, "I do not mean that. Service must be given to God. It
will work out upon one's fellow-creatures, of course."

"Nice distinctions again," said Mr. Dillwyn.

"But very real! And very essential."

"Is there not service--true service--that is given wholly to one's
needy fellows of humanity? It seems to me I have heard of such."

"There is a good deal of such service," said Lois, "but it is not the
true. It is partial, and arbitrary; it ebbs and flows, and chooses; and
is found consorting with what is not service, but the contrary. True
service, given to God, and rising from the love of him, goes where it
is sent and does what it is bidden, and has too high a spring ever to
fail. Real service gives all, and is ready for everything."

"How much do you mean, I wonder, by 'giving all'? Do you use the words
soberly?"

"Quite soberly," said Lois, laughing.

"Giving all what?"

"All one's power,--according to Foster's judgment of it."

"Do you know what that would end in?"

"I think I do. How do you mean?"

"Do you know how much a man or a woman would give who gave _all_ he
had?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"What would be left for himself?"

Lois did not answer at once; but then she stopped short in her walk and
stood still, in the midst of rain and wind, confronting her companion.
And her words were with an energy that she did not at all mean to give
them.

"There would be left for him--all that the riches and love of God could
do for his child."

Mr. Dillwyn gazed into the face that was turned towards him, flushed,
fired, earnest, full of a grand consciousness, as of a most simple
unconsciousness,--and for the moment did not think of replying. Then
Lois recollected herself, smiled at herself, and went on.

"I am very foolish to talk so much," she said. "I do not know why I do.
Somehow I think it is your fault, Mr. Dillwyn. I am not in the habit, I
think, of holding forth so to people who ought to know better than
myself."

"I am sure you are aware that I was speaking honestly, and that I do
_not_ know better?" he said.

"I suppose I thought so," Lois answered. "But that does not quite
excuse me. Only--I was sorry for you, Mr. Dillwyn."

"Thank you. Now, may I go on? The c