“....  Tynie is blind.  He will never see again.  But his face seems to me quite beautiful.  It shines, Ian:  beauty comes from within.  Poor old Tynie, who would have thought that the world he loved couldn’t make that light in his face!  I never saw it there—­did you?  It is just giving up one’s self to the Inevitable.  I suppose we mostly are giving up ourselves to Ourselves, thinking always of our own pleasure and profit and pride, never being content, pushing on and on...., Ian, I’m not going to push on any more.  I’ve done with the Climbers.  There’s too much of the Climbers in us all—­not social climbing, I mean, but wanting to get somewhere that has something for us, out in the big material world.  When I look at Tynie—­he’s lying there so peaceful—­you might think it is a prison he is in.  It isn’t.  He’s set free into a world where he had never been.  He’s set free in a world of light that never blinds us.  If he’d lived to be a hundred with the sight of his eyes, he’d never have known that there’s a world that belongs to Allah,—­I love that word, it sounds so great and yet so friendly, so gentler than the name by which we call the First One in our language and our religion—­and that world is inside ourselves....  Tynie is always thinking of other people now, wondering what they are doing and how they are doing it.  He was talking about you a little while ago, and so admiringly.  It brought the tears to my eyes.  Oh, I am so glad, Ian, that our friendship has always been so much on the surface, so ’void of offence’—­is that the phrase?  I can look at it without wincing; and I am glad.  It never was a thing of importance to you, for I am not important, and there was no weight of life in it or in me.  But even the butterfly has its uses, and maybe I was meant to play a little part in your big life.  I like to think it was so.  Sometimes a bright day gets a little more interest from the drone of the locust or the glow of a butterfly’s wings.  I’m not sure that the locust’s droning and the bright flutter of the butterfly’s wings are not the way Nature has of fastening the soul to the meaning of it all.  I wonder if you ever heard the lines—­foolish they read, but they are not: 

“’All summer long there was one little butterfly,
Flying ahead of me,
Wings red and yellow, a pretty little fellow,
Flying ahead of me. 
One little butterfly, one little butterfly,
What can his message be?—­
All summer long, there was one little butterfly
Flying ahead of me.’

“It may be so that the poet meant the butterfly to mean the joy of things, the hope of things, the love of things flying ahead to draw us on and on into the sunlight and up the steeps, and over the higher hills.