from him. It might have been a stone wall that she cried against;
she would have cried all the same.

Then it was over, and she was half ashamed, thinking it was of no
use, and he would not understand; perhaps that he would only set the
whole down to nerves and fidgets and contrariness, and give her no
common sense that she wanted, after all.

But Uncle Titus spoke, slowly; much as if he, too, were speaking out
involuntarily, without thought of his auditor. People do so speak,
when the deep things are stirred; they speak into the deep that
answereth unto itself,--the deep that reacheth through all souls,
and all living, whether souls feel into it and know of it or not.

"The real things are inside," he said. "The real world is the inside
world. _God_ is not up, nor down, but in the _midst_."

Then he looked up at Desire.

"What is real of your life is living inside you now. That is
something. Look at it and see what it is."

"Discontent. Misery. Failure."

"_Sense_ of failure. Well. Those are good things. The beginning of
better. Those are _live_ things, at any rate."

Desire had never thought of that.

Now _she_ sat still awhile.