"O, if I had that fellow's nerve," said Gregory, "that would be another
thing!"

My wife and I smiled at each other. "How would it be 'another thing?'" we
asked. "Did _you_ not quietly get up and begin life over again as if
nothing had occurred?"

"There wasn't anything else to do," he replied, with a smile. "The
feelings came later, too, in an easy sort o' gradual way. I never could
quite make out how men get such clear notions of what they call
'Providence,' but, just the same, I know by experience there's all the
difference of peace and misery, or life and death, whether you're in
partnership with the things that help the world on, or with those that
hold it back."

"But with that feeling," my wife asked, "did not your longing for our
human world continue?"

"No," he replied, "but I got a new liking for it--although, you
understand, _I_ never had anything against _it_, of course. It's too big
and strong for me, that's all; and that's my fault. Your man on that
slippery roof kicking his shoes off is a sort of parable to me. If your
hand or your foot offend you and you have to cut it off, that's a physical
disablement, and bad enough. But when your gloves and your shoes are too
much for you, and you have to pluck _them_ off and cast them from you, you
find each one is a great big piece of the civilized world, and you hardly
know how much you did like it, till you've lost it. And still, it's no use
longing, when you know your limitations, and I saw I'd got to keep _my_
world trimmed down to where I could run barefooted on the sand."