to leave the subject.

"Almost too good," said Lois. "It spoils one. You cannot imagine the
contrast between what I came from--and _this_. I have been like one in
dreamland. And there comes over me now and then a strange feeling of
the inequality of things; almost a sense of wrong; the way I am cared
for is so very different from the very best and utmost that could be
done for the poor people at Esterbrooke. Think of my soups and creams
and ices and oranges and grapes!--and there, very often I could not get
a bit of fresh beef to make beef-tea; and what could I do without
beef-tea? And what would I not have given for an orange sometimes! I do
not mean, for myself. I could get hardly anything the sick people
really wanted. And here--it is like rain from the clouds."

"Where does the 'sense of wrong' come in?"

"It seems as if things _need_ not be so unequal."

"And what does your silver spade expect to do there?"

"Don't say that! I have no silver spade. But just so far as I could
help to introduce better ways and a knowledge of better things, the
inequality would be made up--or on the way to be made up."

"What refining measures are you thinking of?--beside your own presence
and example."

"I was certainly not thinking of _that_. Why, Mr. Dillwyn, knowledge
itself is refining; and then, so is comfort; and I could help them to
more comfort, in their houses, and in their meals. I began to teach
them singing, which has a great effect; and I carried all the pictures
I had with me. Most of all, though, to bring them to a knowledge of
Bible truth is the principal thing and the surest way. The rest is
really in order to that."

"Wasn't it very hard work?"

"No," said Lois. "Some things were hard; but not the work."

"Because you like it."

"Yes. O, Mr. Dillwyn, there is nothing pleasanter than to do one's
work, if it is work one is sure God has given."

"That must be because you love him," said Philip gravely. "Yet I
understand, that in the universal adjustment of things, the instrument
and its proper work must agree." He was silent a minute, and Lois did
not break the pause. If he would think, let him think, was her meaning.
Then he began again.

"There are different ways. What would you think of a man who spent his
whole life in painting?"

"I should not think that could be anybody's proper life-work."

"I think it was truly his, and he served God in it."

"Who was he?"

"A Catholic monk, in the fiftee