“It is a good prayer, ‘Help me better to bear my sorrows, and to more fully understand my joys.’ For only when we understand our joys do we find contentment.” “There’s a poem Mummie read to us once,” said Bimbo, “in which a man tells how he had everything in life to make him happy. He had riches, he had houses, he had talents, he had friends, and lots of fun of every description, but he hadn’t contentment, and wanting that, he wanted all. And so he set out to seek her, and he travelled far and wide, till at last he went home, because he was tired. And there, when he got home, he found her by his own doorstep, sitting spinning!” “Yes,” said Miss Ross; “I like that story. We have got to find her. And those who have grudges against Fate, and grievances, are the people who expect her to find them. “I assure you, my dear children, I’ve more sympathy with murderers than with grumblers; they at least have some compelling motive, are strongly exercised by hatred or revenge. (I rather like people who can hate, very few people can do it.) But grumblers--I place them in the same class as those who talk about being resigned. Let there be fortitude; indeed if we are to face life at all, we must have it. But resignation, I despise.” Miss Ross rose from her chair, and a piece of paper fell on the ground beside her. Clare picked it up to return it, but she had already passed down the room. And as Clare’s glance fell on the paper she saw that it was poetry written there. “No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere. I see Heaven’s glories shine, And Faith shines equal, arming me from fear. Vain are the thousand creeds That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain, Worthless as withered weeds, Or idlest froth amid the boundless main. To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by Thine infinity. So surely anchored on The steadfast rock of immortality. There is no room for Death, No atom that his might could render void. Thou, Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.” CHAPTER XXVI _Light foot to press the stirrup, In fearlessness and glee, Or dance till finches chirrup, And stars sink in the sea._ CORY JOHNSTONE. One day you might have seen Clare sitting with Miss Hippesley in the drawing-room. The dusk was falling, and the great limbs of the elms in St. James’ Park stood leafless and black against the sombre twilight. Flocks of white seagulls circled among them. It was a world of black, and white, and grey.