“You see, people as a rule don’t really care about pain at a distance,” said Frithiof. “Torture thousands of these herons and egrets by a lingering death, and though people know it is so they wont care; but take one person within hearing of their cries, and that person will wonder how any human being can be such a barbarian as to wear these so-called ospreys.” “I suppose it is that we are so very slow to realize pain that we don’t actually see.” “People don’t really want to stop pain till it makes them personally uncomfortable,” replied Frithiof. “That sounds horribly selfish.” “Most things come round to selfishness when you trace them out.” “Do you really quite think that? I don’t think it can be true, because it is not of one’s self that one thinks in trying to do away with the sufferings of the world; reformers always know that they will have to endure a great deal of pain themselves, and it is the thought of lessening it for others that makes them brave enough to go on.” “But you must allow,” said Frithiof, “that to get up a big subscription you must have a harrowing account of a catastrophe. You must stir people’s hearts so that they wont be comfortable again till they have given a guinea; it is their own pain that prompts them to act—their own personal discomfort.” “That may be, perhaps; but it is not altogether selfishness if they really do give help; it must be a God-like thing that makes them want to cure pain—a devil would gloat over it. Why should you call it selfishness because the good pleases them? ‘_Le bien me plaît_’ was a good enough motto for the Steadfast Prince, why not for the rest of us?” “But is it orthodox, surely, to do what you dislike doing?” “Yes,” struck in Roy, “like the nursery rhyme about ‘The twelve Miss Pellicoes they say were always taught To do the thing they didn’t like, which means the thing they ought.’” “But that seems to me exactly what is false,” said Cecil. “Surely we have to grow into liking the right and the unselfish, and hating the thing that only pleases the lower part of us?” “But the growth is slow with most of us,” said Mr. Boniface. “There’s a specimen for you,” and he glanced toward the door, where an altercation was going on between Master Lance and the nurse who had come to fetch him to bed. “Oh, come, Lance, don’t make such a noise,” cried Cecil, crossing the room and putting a stop to the sort of war-dance of rage and passion which the little fellow was executing. “Why, what do you think would happen to you if you were to sit up late?” “What?” asked Lance, curiosity gaining the upper hand and checking the frenzy of impatience which had possessed him. “You would be a wretched little cross white child, and would never grow up into a strong man. Don’t you want to grow big and strong so that you can take care of Gwen?” “And I’ll take care of you, too,” he said benevolently. “I’ll take you all the way to Norway, and row you in a boat, and shoot the bears.” Frithiof smiled.