At the tea-table Marion told Roger the story of how Jean had an outing. “I wish you might have heard the unconscious way she told it. My life _is_ like Africa: all beaten tracks. I am to be the President of the Outing Ten. All Bensalem is to be my own special private outing, but nobody is to know it.” “Then, Marion dear, you will have the two most blessed things on the earth.” “What are they?” “Don’t you know?” “You think work is one,” she said doubtfully. “So you think. And companionship is the other.” “Roger, dear, I’m afraid I haven’t given you companionship; I’ve been stupid, self-absorbed, idle—” “Anything else?” “But you have been desolate, sometimes.” “My work has been my companionship.” “Then there is only one blessed thing to you,” she said, merrily. “May you get it.” “I am getting it every day.” “Then you do not inwardly fret against the limitations of this bit of a village—” she began, frightened at herself for the suggestion: “I thought, perhaps, you were _bearing_ Bensalem.” “So I am, I hope,” he answered, gravely, “in my heart, and in my prayers.” “I beg your pardon,” she returned, flushing under the “splendid purpose in his eyes.” “I might have known you were too broad to feel narrowed, as I do.” “You remember what Lowell says: ‘There are few brains that would not be better for living for a while on their own fat.’” “And that is better than the fat of the land—which you will never get in Bensalem.” “I think I started from my new standpoint without worldly ambition. Think of Paul writing the Epistle to the Romans from a literary point of view.” “Well, then,” with a laugh that was half a grumble, “I despair of you, if you ‘take pleasure’ as he did in all sorts of infirmities and limitations—I was beginning to be ambitious for you. You spent all the afternoon last week with Agnes Trembly’s mother, reading to her, and telling her stories—you do not take time to _study_ as you used to study. You were such a student. Now all you care for is people—and the Bible,” she ran on, discontentedly; “What does Don think of you?” she asked, with a sudden flush. “He is in despair,” he replied, thinking of Don’s latest letter of angry expostulation. “He is ambitious,” said Marion, reproachfully. “So am I,” he answered, smiling at the reproach. “But in such a way. I like ambition. I would like to do something in the world myself.” “The man, or woman, or child, who does the will of God is every day doing something in the world,” he said, seriously. For a moment she was silenced, then urged by her own discontent she burst out:— “But five hundred or a thousand people might as well listen to you, and be influenced by your ‘strength and simplicity,’ as this handful of Bensalem.” “The perfect Teacher was more than once content with but one listener.” “Yes; but his sermon was written and handed down to all the ages,” she answered, in a flash.