“You told me I was like you, papa; and you look as if you liked the idea of it too.” “_Per se_, certainly, a storm is pleasant to me. I should not like a world without storms any more than I should like that Frenchman’s idea of the perfection of the earth, when all was to be smooth as a trim-shaven lawn, rocks and mountains banished, and the sea breaking on the shore only in wavelets of ginger-beer or lemonade, I forget which. But the older you grow, the more sides of a thing will present themselves to your contemplation. The storm may be grand and exciting in itself, but you cannot help thinking of the people that are in it. Think for a moment of the multitude of vessels, great and small, which are gathered within the skirts of that angry vapour out there. I fear the toils of the storm are around them. Look at the barometer in the hall, my dear, and tell me what it says.” She went and returned. “It was not very low, papa--only at rain; but the moment I touched it, the hand dropped an inch.” “Yes, I thought so. All things look stormy. It may not be very bad here, however.” “That doesn’t make much difference though, does it, papa?” “No further than that being creatures in time and space, we must think of things from our own standpoint.” “But I remember very well how, when we were children, you would not let nurse teach us Dr. Watts’s hymns for children, because you said they tended to encourage selfishness.” “Yes; I remember it very well. Some of them make the contrast between the misery of others and our own comforts so immediately the apparent--mind, I only say apparent--ground of thankfulness, that they are not fit for teaching. I do think that if you could put Dr. Watts to the question, he would abjure any such intention, saying that only he meant to heighten the sense of our obligation. But it does tend to selfishness and, what is worse, self-righteousness, and is very dangerous therefore. What right have I to thank God that I am not as other men are in anything? I have to thank God for the good things he has given to me; but how dare I suppose that he is not doing the same for other people in proportion to their capacity? I don’t like to appear to condemn Dr. Watts’s hymns. Certainly he has written the very worst hymns I know; but he has likewise written the best--for public worship, I mean.” “Well, but, papa, I have heard you say that any simple feeling that comes of itself cannot be wrong in itself. If I feel a delight in the idea of a storm, I cannot help it coming.” “I never said you could, my dear. I only said that as we get older, other things we did not feel at first come to show themselves more to us, and impress us more.” Thus my child and I went on, like two pendulums crossing each other in their swing, trying to reach the same dead beat of mutual intelligence. “But,” said Wynnie, “you say everybody is in God’s hands as well as we.” “Yes, surely, my dear; as much out in yon stormy haze as here beside the fire.”