Sophia assented, feeling a little sharp because it seemed to her that he was taking up the thread of his acquaintance with her just where it had formerly parted when she had thrown before him the gauntlet of such high resolves and heavenly aims as young girls can easily talk about when they know as yet nothing of their fulfilment.  Whether or not Sophia knew more of their fulfilment since then, she had, at least, learned a more humble reverence for the very thought of such struggles, and she was quite ready to believe that the man to whom she had once called to come onward had by this time far outstripped her in the race.  She was ready for this belief; but she had not accepted it, because, as yet confused and excited by all that was new, she had formed no conclusion whatever with regard to Trenholme.  It had puzzled her somewhat from the outset to find him such a model of elegance in the matter of clothes and manners.  She had, somehow, fancied that he would have a long beard and wear an old coat.  Instead of that, his usual manner of accosting her reminded her more of those fashion plates in which one sees tailors’ blocks taking off their hats to one another.  She did not think this was to his disadvantage; she did not, as yet, think distinctly on the matter at all.  She certainly had no time to deliberate during this particular conversation, for her companion, having only a few minutes to utilise, was in a talkative humour.  Having spoken of his own work, and made the more general observations on the difficulties of what is commonly called the “narrow road,” in a quiet, honest way, he said something more personal.

“I have always felt, Miss Rexford, that it would be a pleasure to me to see you again, because of the strength and courage which you managed to infuse into my youthful aspirations; but now that I have seen you, will you permit me to say that you have been quite unknowingly a help to me again?  A week ago I was half-disheartened of my life because of the apparent sordidness of its daily duties, and now that I have seen you giving your life to perform small and unassuming services for others, my own duties have appeared more sacred.  I can’t tell you how much I admire your unselfish devotion to these children.  Don’t think me rude because I say it.  I often think we are shabby to one another because, in the strife, we do not frankly say when we are helped by seeing the brave fight that some one else is making.”

They had stopped by the gate, for he was going one way and she and the little ones another.  Two strong young firs, with snow upon their shelving branches, formed gateposts.  The long broad road was white as their footpath had been.

Sophia answered:  “There is no virtue in what I do, for, had I the choice, I certainly should not be their nursemaid.”

“Do you know,” he said, “I think when we see life in its reality, instead of in its seeming, we shall find that the greatest deeds have been done just because their doers believe that they could not do otherwise.”