had been at the tail of his class ever since his primer days? Well,
Anthony was seventeen now, and he was "educated," in spite of sorry
recitations--educated, the Lord knows how! Yes, in point of fact the
Lord does know how! He knows how the drill and pressure of the daily
task, still more the presence of the high ideal, the inspiration
working from within, how these educate us.

The blind Anthony Croft sitting in the kitchen doorway had seemingly
missed the heights of life he might have trod, and had walked his
close on fifty years through level meadows of mediocrity, a witch in
every finger-tip waiting to be set to work, head among the clouds,
feet stumbling, eyes and ears open to hear God's secret thought;
seeing and hearing it, too, but lacking force to speak it forth
again; for while imperious genius surmounts all obstacles, brushes
laws and formulas from its horizon, and with its own free soul sees
its "path and the outlets of the sky," potential genius for ever
needs an angel of deliverance to set it free.

Poor Anthony Croft, or blessed Anthony Croft, I know not which--God
knows! Poor he certainly was, yet blessed after all. "One thing I
do," said Paul. "One thing I do," said Anthony. He was not able to
realise his ideals, but he had the angel aim by which he idealised
his reals.

O waiting heart of God! how soon would Thy kingdom come if we all did
our allotted tasks, humble or splendid, in this consecrated fashion!



CHAPTER III