her that he was not a great painter to do this, or to design the great
work, but that the master would come presently, who had the chief
responsibility. "For we have not all the same genius," he said, "and if
I were to paint this head it would not have the gift of life as that one
has; but to stand by and see him put it in, you cannot think what a
happiness that is: for one knows every touch, and just what effect it
will have, though one could not do it one's self; and it is a wonder and
a delight perpetual that it should be done."

The little Pilgrim looked up at him and said, "That is very beautiful to
say. And do you never wish to be like him--to make the lovely, living
faces as well as the other parts?"

"Is not this lovely too?" he said; and showed her how he had just put in
a billowy robe, buoyed out with the wind, and sweeping down from the
shoulders of a stately figure in such free and graceful folds that she
would have liked to take it in her hand and feel the silken texture; and
then he told her how absorbing it was to study the mysteries of colour
and the differences of light. "There is enough in that to make one
happy," he said. "It is thought by some that we will all come to the
higher point with work and thought; but that is not my feeling; and
whether it is so or not what does it matter, for our Father makes no
difference: and all of us are necessary to everything that is done: and
it is almost more delight to see the master do it than to do it with
one's own hand. For one thing, your own work may rejoice you in your
heart, but always with a little trembling, because it is never so
perfect as you would have it--whereas in your master's work you have
full content, because his idea goes beyond yours, and as he makes every
touch you can feel 'that is right--that is complete--that is just as it
ought to be.' Do you understand what I mean?" he said, turning to her