“You are right, Ethelwyn. The moment a man is convinced of his folly, he ceases to be a fool. The moment a man is convinced of his conceit, he ceases to be conceited. But there _must_ be a final judgment, and the true man will welcome it, even if he is to appear a convicted fool. A man’s business is to see first that he is not acting the part of a fool, and next, to help any honest people who care about the matter to take heed likewise that they be not offering to pull the mote out of their brother’s eye. But there are even societies established and supported by good people for the express purpose of pulling out motes.--‘The Mote-Pulling Society!’--That ought to take with a certain part of the public.” “Come, come, Harry. You are absurd. Such people don’t come near you.” “They can’t touch me. No. But they come near good people whom I know, brandishing the long pins with which they pull the motes out, and threatening them with judgment before their time. They are but pins, to be sure--not daggers.” “But you have wandered, Harry, into the narrowest underground, musty ways, and have forgotten all about ‘the cubicalness of nature.’” “You are right, my love, as you generally are,” I answered, laughing. “Look at that great antlered elk, or moose--fit quarry for Diana of the silver bow. Look how it glides solemnly away into the unpastured depths of the aerial deserts. Look again at that reclining giant, half raised upon his arm, with his face turned towards the wilderness. What eyes they must be under those huge brows! On what message to the nations is he borne as by the slow sweep of ages, on towards his mysterious goal?” “Stop, stop, Harry,” said my wife. “It makes me unhappy to hear grand words clothing only cloudy fancies. Such words ought to be used about the truth, and the truth only.” “If I could carry it no further, my dear, then it would indeed be a degrading of words. But there never was a vagary that uplifted the soul, or made the grand words flow from the gates of speech, that had not its counterpart in truth itself. Man can imagine nothing, even in the clouds of the air, that God has not done, or is not doing. Even as that cloudy giant yields, and is ‘shepherded by the slow unwilling wind,’ so is each of us borne onward to an unseen destiny--a glorious one if we will but yield to the Spirit of God that bloweth where it listeth--with a grand listing--coming whence we know not, and going whither we know not. The very clouds of the air are hung up as dim pictures of the thoughts and history of man.” “I do not mind how long you talk like that, husband, even if you take the clouds for your text. But it did make me miserable to think that what you were saying had no more basis than the fantastic forms which the clouds assume. I see I was wrong, though.”