the stream 'never hasting, never resting': the grass that grows
beside it is always green, the flowers are fresh; it makes long
embracing curves--I could cross from point to point in a minute,
but to follow takes five. The ways of the water are ways of
healing; I have a companion who makes no mistakes, touches none of
my tender spots.

Presently I reach the silent pool, where the stream takes a wide
sweep. Here the fair white water-lilies lie on their broad green
leaves and wait for their lover the moon; for then they open their
silvery leaves and bloom in the soft light fairer far than beneath
the hot rays of the sun. Then, too, the buds rise out of the water
and the moon kisses them into bloom and fragrance. Near by are the
little yellow water-lilies, set for beauty against a background of
great blue-eyed forget-me-nots and tall feathery meadowsweet. The
river still sweeps on its way, but the pool is undisturbed; it lies
out of the current. They say it is very deep--no one knows quite
how deep--and it has its hidden tragedy. I gaze down through the
clear water, following the thick lily-stalks--a forest where solemn
carp sail in and out and perch chase each other through the maze--
and beyond them I cannot see the bottom, the secret of its
stillness; but I may watch the clouds mirrored on its surface, and
the evening glow lying at my feet.

I think of the fathomless depths of the peace of God, fair with
flowers of hope; of still places wrought in man; of mirrors that
reflect, in light uncomprehended, the Image of the Holy Face.

I go home across the common, comforted, towards the little town
where the red roofs lie glimmering in the evening shadows, and the