32 WITH CARL OF THE HILL 



the magic of her art should arrest the shifting 

 wonders of lake and sky that his poor blundering 

 hand had sometimes tried to paint. And Carl, who 

 had a poet's soul, had tried at times to shape his 

 utterance into something like an echo of the thoughts 

 that were in him; but — oh yes^ he'knew it — in such 

 halting numbers. But then there, would be no more 

 failures ; for hers would be the inspiration, till the 

 world would listen to their song. Further, nothing 

 sorrowed or bewildered Carl more than the mystery 

 of pain and suffering. The spectacle of a being — of a 

 child especially — in distress was always a shock to 

 him as of actual physical pain. He had plenty of 

 room in the little settlements about him for the 

 exercise of a relieving kindness, where simple 

 gratitude welcomed him and blessed his name. But 

 after all he was but a clumsy man — as was often 

 his reproachful reflection ; and then he would think 

 of Sunlight moving round in her sweet gracious- 

 ness, "a voice of comfort, and an open hand of 

 help." 



So every day, and earlier than had ever been his 

 wont, the great strong man returned from his labour 

 to rock a cradle with his foot. His wife said little. 

 She was only too glad to find him so domestic, 



