been tempted to mistake the Pipkin for a statelier, more
pretentious Vessel--a Vase, say, all graceful curves and embossed
sides, but shallow, perhaps, possibly lacking breadth. No, the
Pipkin is a pipkin, made of common clay--even though it has the
uncommon sweetness and strength to overcome the tendencies of
clay--and fashioned for those common uses of life, deprivation of
which to anything that comes from the Potter's hands is the most
enduring, the most uncommon sorrow.

O pretty little Pipkin, thank the Potter, who made you as you
are, as you will be--a thing that can cheer and stay men's souls
by ministering to the human needs of them. For you, be sure, the
Potter's `a good fellow and 'twill all be well.'

For the Pot--he sails shortly, or rather, he is to be carted
abroad by some optimistic friends whose hopes he does not
share--to a celebrated repair shop for damaged pots. Whether he
shall return, patched and mended into temporary semblance of a
useful Vessel; whether he shall continue to be merely the same
old Luckless Pot, or whether he shall return at all, O Pipkin,
does not matter much.

But it has been well that, before we two behind the veil had
passed, we met again, and you left me such a fragrant memory.

LATIMER."

* * * * * * * * * *