“I am glad your mental horizon has widened,” she said. “It will be a pleasure to think of you as one of my converts. I may never make another, unless, as in this case, it be done by example and not argument. I begin to believe that discussion availeth little. When I hear poor, undeveloped beings fighting the ideas that would make them free, I do nothing to convert them to my way of thinking, I just silently say, ‘May God enlighten them,’ for that’s all that can be done, and the enlightening process is usually slow.” “I remember now,” he said, “that I haven’t been able to draw you into a discussion in many a day. I suppose you saw it was a hopeless case and just simply prayed for my enlightenment.” “Yes; and it has come sooner than I expected. So now I am more than ever persuaded that argument is useless. None can be taught until ready to learn. ‘Except ye become as little children’--receptive, teachable, ready for light--applies to entering all kingdoms as well as the heavenly one.” “While I am confessing,” said Kendall, “I will tell you that I used sometimes to take sides against you for the pleasure of hearing you express yourself--you do it so well.” She looked at him and her eyes made him ashamed, as she said: “That was not kind. I was always in earnest. However, I am learning a little more about human nature every day. I shall soon cease to be a Galatea, I think.” “No; it was not kind nor honest, but I did not realize it until this moment, and now I ask your pardon. Many of the offences of us men are the outcome of ignorance rather than meanness. We know no better. Our conceit has stood in the way of our enlightenment. Forgive all my shortcomings, and remember my defects no more. Be a little kinder still and do one other service for me. Read me my future.” “I am no occultist,” she answered, laughing. “No matter. I have a fancy for believing you are for the time being. Tell me what lies ahead. It may keep up my courage. Since you are my confessor, I don’t mind telling you that there are moments when I feel a childish cowardice about what I may have to meet, and wish I could run away from it all and hide forevermore.” “That recalls a bit of rhyme I read years ago which has always stuck in my memory,” she said: “‘What is Life, Father? A battle, my child, Where the strongest arm may fail; Where the wariest eye may be beguil’d, And the stoutest heart may quail.’