Barbara uttered a prolonged “Oh!” and again was silent, listening to the talk of the elemental spirits, feeling the very wind of home that blew on the mariner, seeing the lighthouse, and the hill, and the weathercock on the church-spire, and the white bay, and the shining seraphs with the crimson shadows, and the sinking ship, and the hermit that made the mariner tell his story as he was telling it now. But when Richard came to the words-- “He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small, For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all,” she clapped her hands together; and when he ended them, she cried out-- “I was sure of it! I knew something would come to tie it all up together into one bundle! That's it! That's it! The love of everything is the garden-bed out of which grow the roses of prayer!--But what am I saying!” she added, checking herself; “I love everything, at least everything that comes near me, and I never pray!” “Of course not! Why should you?” said Richard. “Why should I not?” “You would if it were reasonable!” “I will, then! To love all the creatures and not have a word to say to the God that made them for loving them before-hand--is that reasonable?” “No, if a God did make them.” “They could not make themselves!” “No; nothing could make itself.” “Then somebody must have made them!” “Who?” “Why, the one that could and did--who else?” “We know nothing about such a somebody. All we know is, that there they are, and we have got to love them!” “Ah!” she said, and looked up into the wide sky, where now the “wandering moon” was alone, Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless way, and gazed as if she searched for the Somebody. “I should like to see the one that made that!” she said at last. “Think of knowing the very person that made that poor pigeon, and has got it now!--and made Miss Brown--and the wind! I must find him! He can't have made me and not care when I ask him to speak to me! You say he is nowhere! I don't believe there is any nowhere, so he can't be there! Some people may be content with things; I shall get tired of them, I know, if I don't get behind them! A thing is nothing without what things it! A gift is nothing without what gives it! Oh, dear! I know what I mean, but I can't say it!” “You don't know what you mean, but you do say it!” thought Richard. He was nowise repelled by her enthusiasm, for there was in it nothing assailant, nothing too absurdly superstitious. He did not care to answer her. They went walking toward the house and were silent. The moon went on with her silentness: she never stops being silent. When they felt near the house, they fell to walking slower, but neither knew it. Barbara spoke again: