“No. I cannot even _think_ that,” she said, impulsively. “Because you have not placed me on any such pedestal?” “Perhaps so,” she laughed. “_Is_ that the reason?” “No, for when I was a little girl I placed my Cousin Don and his friend Roger on the same pedestal. You haven’t tumbled off yet, and I’ve been with you ever since.” “Judith, I do not like that,” he answered, seriously; “you shouldn’t look at people like that.” “I don’t. At people. But I do at you, and Don, and Marion, and Aunt Affy and Ruskin and George Macdonald and Miss Mulock and Tennyson and—” “Then I will not be frightened if we are all there. If one of us fail, you will have all the others to keep the sun in your sky.” “Now, give me back the reins, because I have told you.” He laid the reins in her hand, asking what she had been doing with herself all the morning. “Writing a story.” “O, Judith, not another one,” he exclaimed in pretended dismay. “I had to. It was burning in my bones. Don’t you know I got five dollars for the last one?” “Can nothing but a five-dollar bill quench the burning in your bones?” “Oh, yes; the burning is quenched by writing it. I am quenched now for quite a while.” “What was your inspiration this time?” “Something you said Sunday evening.” “Tell me.” “I will read it to you in your earliest leisure.” “Do you intend to keep this thing up and be a dreadful literary creature?” “Only as long as the burning lasts.” “But while you muse the fire burns; you must give up musing.” “Are you serious?” she asked, troubled. “No, dear. Give everything that is _in_ you. That is what it is in you for.” “I know that,” she answered, confidently. “In almost all your sermons I find a thought to make a story of.” “You illustrate me. I am the author; you are the artist.” “Then how can I go away and keep house for Don?” “You mercenary creature, you want to make money out of me.” “When I was a little girl and thought of writing stories I wanted to earn money; now I only think of the joy of writing things down.” “That is creating—like the joy of the Lord. May it last forever—like his joy.” Judith was silent from sheer happiness. Her work was so little, but so dear: Roger and Marion always understood; she was no more shy with them about her stories than about her thoughts; she gave herself to them utterly, as she had given herself to her mother. The parsonage at Meadow Centre was in Meadow Centre; it was not in a village, or a _ville_; it was not in any place, but its own place, where it stood; the church was the nearest building, the post-office was two miles distant; there were farm-houses scattered about for miles; the most distant parishioner lived three miles from the church. The parsonage, built of wood and stone, a story and a half, with the trumpet vine climbing luxuriously to its low roof, had passed its birthday of three-score years and ten. It was old, and it looked as if it felt old.