But thought on our theme is usually lifted up to where the sky keeps company with the granite and the grass, to a religious elevation. Nor do we need stop short here. Ultimately the new loyalty is loyalty to God, the new God, of whom something must be said later. The God in whom all fulness dwells summons us to ever new truths, and reveals underground wells of living water throwing its spray aloft on life's ferns and flowers. To be loyal to him is never to sunder ourselves from his fulness and freshness, but to co-work with him who is forever making all things new. And now I think we are at the end. The result? It is needless to state it, but I would not shrink from the thankless task. In a word, then, the new loyalty--in harmony with the whole great changed view of the world and of life--is loyalty to change and becoming rather than to finishedness and finality; to the future rather than to the past; to ideals rather than to conventions; to freedom rather than to authority; to personality rather than to institution; to character rather than to respectability; to our hunger rather than to our satiety; to the God that is to be rather than to the God that is. Thus the loyalty abides, but the objects of loyalty change and pass. THE MILLINER SADE IVERSON All the day long I have been sitting in my shop Sewing straw on hat-shapes according to the fashion, Putting lace and ribbon on according to the fashion, Setting out the faces of customers according to fashion. Whatever they asked for I tried to give them; Over their worldly faces I put mimic flowers From out my silk and velvet garden; I bade Spring come To those who had seen Autumn; I coaxed faded eyes To look bright and hard brows to soften. Not once, while they were looking in the glass, Did I peep over their shoulders to see myself. It would have been quite unavailing for me, Who have grown grey in service of other women, To have used myself as any sort of a model. Had I looked in the mirror I should have seen Only a bleached face, long housed from sunshine, A mouth quick with forced smiles, eyes greyly stagnant, And over all, like a night fog creeping, Something chill and obscuring and dead-- The miasmatic mist of the soul of the lonely. When night comes and the buyers are gone their ways, I go into the little room behind my shop. It is my home--my silent and lonely home; But it has fire, it has food; there is a bed; Pictures are on the walls, showing the faces I kissed in girlhood. I am myself here; All my forced smiles are laid away with the moline And the ribbon and roses. I may do as I please. If I beat with my fists on the table, no one hears; If I lie in my bed, staring, staring, No one can know; I shall not suffer the pity Of those who, passing, see my light edge the grey curtain.