little experience," she said. "Long years ago I resolved to be sent to
school. It seemed a thing utterly out of my power; but I waited, I
watched, I collected clothes, I wrote, took my place at the school; when
all was ready I bore with my full force on the Boer-woman, and she sent me
at last. It was a small thing; but life is made up of small things, as a
body is built up of cells. What has been done in small things can be done
in large. Shall be," she said softly.

Waldo listened. To him the words were no confession, no glimpse into the
strong, proud, restless heart of the woman. They were general words with a
general application. He looked up into the sparkling sky with dull eyes.

"Yes," he said; "but when we lie and think, and think, we see that there is
nothing worth doing. The universe is so large, and man is so small--"

She shook her head quickly.

"But we must not think so far; it is madness, it is a disease. We know
that no man's work is great, and stands forever. Moses is dead, and the
prophets and the books that our grandmothers fed on the mould is eating.
Your poet and painter and actor,--before the shouts that applaud them have
died their names grow strange, they are milestones that the world has
passed. Men have set their mark on mankind forever, as they thought; but
time has washed it out as it has washed out mountains and continents." She
raised herself on her elbow. "And what if we could help mankind, and leave
the traces of our work upon it to the end? Mankind is only an ephemeral
blossom on the tree of time; there were others before it opened; there will
be others after it has fallen. Where was man in the time of the
dicynodont, and when hoary monsters wallowed in the mud? Will he be found
in the aeons that are to come? We are sparks, we are shadows, we are