No matter then. Let him shine into the deepest corners of my heart, and shake the cowardice and the meanness out of it. I thus made friends with Nature. I had no great variety even in her, but the better did I understand what I had. The next Summer I began to hunt for glow-worms, and carry them carefully to my hollow, that in the warm, soft, moonless nights they might illumine it with a strange light. When I had been very successful, I would call my uncle and aunt to see. My aunt tried me by always having something to do first. My uncle, on the other hand, would lay down his book at once, and follow me submissively. He could not generate amusement for me, but he sympathized with what I could find for myself. ‘Come and see my cows,’ I would say to him. I well remember the first time I took him to see them. When we reached the hollow, he stood for a moment silent. Then he said, laying his hand on my shoulder, ‘Very pretty, Willie! But why do you call them cows?’ ‘You told me last night,’ I answered, ‘that the road the angels go across the sky is called the milky way--didn’t you, uncle?’ ‘I never told you the angels went that way, my boy.’ ‘Oh! didn’t you? I thought you did.’ ‘No, I didn’t.’ ‘Oh! I remember now: I thought if it was a way, and nobody but the angels could go in it, that must be the way the angels did go.’ ‘Yes, yes, I see! But what has that to do with the glow-worms?’ ‘Don’t you see, uncle? If it be the milky way, the stars must be the cows. Look at my cows, uncle. Their milk is very pretty milk, isn’t it?’ ‘Very pretty, indeed, my dear--rather green.’ ‘Then I suppose if you could put it in auntie’s pan, you might make another moon of it?’ ‘That’s being silly now,’ said my uncle; and I ceased, abashed. ‘Look, look, uncle!’ I exclaimed, a moment after; ‘they don’t like being talked about, my cows.’ For as if a cold gust of wind had passed over them, they all dwindled and paled. I thought they were going out. ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ I cried, and began dancing about with dismay. The next instant the glow returned, and the hollow was radiant. ‘Oh, the dear light!’ I cried again. ‘Look at it, uncle! Isn’t it lovely?’ He took me by the hand. His actions were always so much more tender than his words! ‘Do you know who is the light of the world, Willie?’ ‘Yes, well enough. I saw him get out of bed this morning.’ My uncle led me home without a word more. But next night he began to teach me about the light of the world, and about walking in the light. I do not care to repeat much of what he taught me in this kind, for like my glow-worms it does not like to be talked about. Somehow it loses colour and shine when one talks. I have now shown sufficiently how my uncle would seize opportunities for beginning things. He thought more of the beginning than of any other part of a process. ‘All’s well that begins well,’ he would say. I did not know what his smile meant as he said so.