"_Laborare est orare_."

Somehow the words had set themselves to resonant music in my brain; it
seemed as though I were chanting them inwardly all the time I was
climbing down the steep hill with Christiana and her boys. _Laborare est
orare._ And this is what I was reading on that still, snowy Sunday
afternoon: "But we will come again to this Valley of Humiliation. It is
the best and most fruitful piece of ground in all these parts. It is a
fat ground, and, as you see, consisteth much in meadows, and if a man
was to come here in the summertime as we do now, if he knew not anything
before thereof, and if he delighted himself in the sight of his eyes, he
might see that which would be delightful to him. Behold how green this
valley is, also how beautiful with lilies! I have known many labouring
men that have got good estates in this Valley of Humiliation."

"Merle," observed Aunt Agatha, a little dryly, "we may as well leave off
there, for it seems that you and I are to have our estate among the
labouring men in this very valley."

Aunt Agatha was a clever woman, and could say shrewd things sometimes,
but she never spoke a truer word than this; but my wits were no longer
wool-gathering.

"What a pity you stopped me just then," I remarked, somewhat
sententiously; "we have missed the purest gem of the allegory. 'He that
is down need fear no fall; he that is low no pride.'" But here a hand
was lifted in protesting fashion.

"Put the marker in the page, child, and spare me the rest; that is in
favour of your argument, not mine," for a weary discussion had been