bareness and bleakness, its veiling cloud, its chilly airs, but
the preface to some vast and glorious springtime of the spirit, when
hill and valley should break together into sunlit bloom, when the trees
should be clothed with leaf, when birds should sing clear for joy, and
the soul should be utterly satisfied. The old poet had said that the
saddest thing was to remember happy days in hours of sorrow; but to
remember the dreary days in a season of calm content, what joy could be
compared to that? His heart was slowly filled, as a cup with wine,
with an unutterable hope; but he desired no longer that some great
thing should come to him, which should exalt him above his fellows and
make him envied and admired. Rather should the humblest and the lowest
place suffice, some corner of life which he should deck, and tend, and
keep bright and sweet; a few hands to grasp, a few hearts to encourage;
and even so to do that with no set purpose, but by merely letting the
gentle joy of the soul overflow, like a spring of brimming waters, fed
from high hills of faith.

And so, like a figure that passes down a corridor and enters at an open
door, Hugh passes from our sight. He mingles with his fellows, he goes
to and fro, he speaks and he is silent, he smiles and weeps; he may not
be distinguished from other men, and there lies his best happiness,
because he is waiting upon God. His life may be long or short; he may
mix with the crowd or sit solitary. If he differs at all from others,
it is in this, that he desires no costly thread of gold, no bright-hued
skein that he may weave his texture of life. Upon that tapestry will
be depicted no knight in shining armour; no nymphs with floating
vestures, no paradise of flowers; rather dim hills and cloud-hung
valleys, and the darkness of haunted groves; with one figure of shadowy
hue in sober raiment, walking earnestly as one that has a note of the
way; he would desire nothing but what may uphold him; he would fear
nothing but what may stain him; he would shun the company of none who
need him; he would clasp the hand of any gentle-hearted pilgrim. So
would he walk in quietness to the dim valley and the dark stream,
believing that the Father has a place and a work and a joy for the
smallest thing that His hands have made.

THE END

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_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

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THE SIL