The lords of creation have a curious way of patronizing the beings they profess to worship. Man was made a little lower than the angels; he calls woman an angel, and then looks down upon her! Certainly, however, he has done his best to make her worthy of his condescension! But Walter had begun to learn humility, and no longer sought the chief place at the feast. “Molly!” he said, in a low, wondering voice. “Yes?” answered Molly. “Forgive me, Molly. I am unworthy.” “I forgive you with all my heart, and love you for thinking it worth while to ask me.” “I am full of admiration of your story!” “Why? It was not difficult.” Walter took her little hand and kissed it as if she had been a princess. Molly blushed, but did not take her hand from him. Walter might do what he liked with her ugly little hand! It was only to herself she called it ugly, however, not to Walter! Anyhow she was wrong; her hand was a very pretty one. It was indeed a little spoiled with work, but it was gloved with honor! It were good for many a heart that its hands were so spoiled! Human feet get a little broadened with walking; human hands get a little roughened with labor; but what matter! There are others, after like pattern but better finished, making, and to be ready by the time these are worn out, for all who have not shirked work. Walter rose and went up the stairs to his own room, a chamber in the roof, crowded with memories. There he sat down to think, and thinking led to something else. Molly sat still and cried; for though it made her very glad to see him take it so humbly, it made her sad to give him pain. But not once did she wish she had not told him. CHAPTER XXXI. THIS PICTURE AND THIS. After awhile, as he did not appear, Molly went up to find him: she was anxious he should know how heartily she valued his _real_ opinion. “I have got a little poem here--if you can call it a poem--a few lines I wrote last Christmas: would you mind looking at it, and telling me if it is anything?” “So, my bird of paradise, you sing too?” said Walter. “Very little. A friend to whom I sent it, took it, without asking me, to one of the magazines for children, but they wouldn’t have it. Tell me if it is worth printing. Not that I want it printed--not a bit!” “I begin to think, Molly, that anything you write must be worth printing! But I wonder you should ask one who has proved himself so incompetent to give a true opinion, that even what he has given he is unable to defend!” “I shall always trust your opinion, Walter--only it must be an opinion: you gave a judgment then without having formed an opinion. Shall I read?” “Yes, please, Molly. I never used to like having poetry read to me, but you _can_ read poetry!” “This is easy to read!” said Molly. “See the countless angels hover! See the mother bending over! See the shepherds, kings and cow! What is baby thinking now? Oh, to think what baby thinks Would be worth all holy inks!