She lay silent a long time. I too was silent. At length I spoke. “Are you longing to be running about amongst the rocks, my Connie?” “No, papa; not a bit. I don’t know how it is, but I don’t think I ever wished much for anything I knew I could not have. I am enjoying everything more than I can tell you. I wish Wynnie were as happy as I am.” “Why? Do you think she’s not happy, my dear?” “That doesn’t want any thinking, papa. You can see that.” “I am afraid you’re right, Connie. What do you think is the cause of it?” “I think it is because she can’t wait. She’s always going out to meet things; and then when they’re not there waiting for her, she thinks they’re nowhere. But I always think her way is finer than mine. If everybody were like me, there wouldn’t be much done in the world, would there, papa?” “At all events, my dear, your way is wise for you, and I am glad you do not judge your sister.” “Judge Wynnie, papa! That would be cool impudence. She’s worth ten of me. Don’t you think, papa,” she added, after a pause, “that if Mary had said the smallest word against Martha, as Martha did against Mary, Jesus would have had a word to say on Martha’s side next?” “Indeed I do, my dear. And I think that Mary did not sit very long without asking Jesus if she mightn’t go and help her sister. There is but one thing needful--that is, the will of God; and when people love that above everything, they soon come to see that to everything else there are two sides, and that only the will of God gives fair play, as we call it, to both of them.” Another silence followed. Then Connie spoke. “Is it not strange, papa, that the only time here that makes me want to get up to look, is nothing of all the grand things round about me? I am just lying like the convex mirror in the school-room at home, letting them all paint themselves in me.” “What is it then that makes you wish to get up and go and see?” I asked with real curiosity. “Do you see down there--away across the bay--amongst the rocks at the other side, a man sitting sketching?” I looked for some time before I could discover him. “Your sight is good, Connie: I see the man, but I could not tell what he was doing.” “Don’t you see him lifting his head every now and then for a moment, and then keeping it down for a longer while?” “I cannot distinguish that. But then I am shortsighted rather, you know.” “I wonder how you see so many little things that nobody else seems to notice, then, papa.” “That is because I have trained myself to observe. The degree of power in the sight is of less consequence than the habit of seeing. But you have not yet told me what it is that makes you desirous of getting up.” “I want to look over his shoulder, and see what he is doing. Is it not strange that in the midst of all this plenty of beautifulness, I should want to rise to look at a few lines and scratches, or smears of colour, upon a bit of paper?”