in my dream with Neith.  Neith was sitting weaving, and I thought she looked sad, and threw her shuttle slowly; and St. Barbara was standing at her side, in a stiff little gown, all ins and outs, and angles; but so bright with embroidery that it dazzled me whenever she moved; the train of it was just like a heap of broken jewels, it was so stiff, and full of corners, and so many-colored and bright.  Her hair fell over her shoulders in long, delicate waves, from under a little three pinnacled crown, like a tower.  She was asking Neith about the laws of architecture in Egypt and Greece; and when Neith told her the measures of the pyramids, St. Barbara said she thought they would have been better three-cornered and when Neith told her the measures of the Parthenon, St. Barbara said she thought it ought to have had two transepts.  But she was pleased when Neith told her of the temple of the dew, and of the Caryan maidens bearing its frieze:  and then she thought that perhaps Neith would like to hear what sort of temples she was building herself, in the French valleys, and on the crags of the Rhine.  So she began gossiping, just as one of you might to an old lady:  and certainly she talked in the sweetest way in the world to Neith; and explained to her all about crockets and pinnacles:  and Neith sat, looking very grave; and always graver as St. Barbara went on; till at last, I’m sorry to say, St. Barbara lost her temper a little.

Mary (very grave herself).  “St. Barbara”?

L. Yes, Mary.  Why shouldn’t she?  It was very tiresome of Neith to sit looking like that.

May.  But, then, St. Barbara was a saint!

L. What’s that, May?

May.  A saint!  A saint is—­I am sure you know!

L. If I did, it would not make me sure that you knew too, May:  but
I don’t.

Violet (expressing the incredulity of the audience).  Oh,—­sir!

L. That is to say, I know that people are called saints who are supposed to be better than others:  but I don’t know how much better they must be, in order to be saints; nor how nearly anybody may be a saint, and yet not be quite one; nor whether everybody who is called a saint was one; nor whether everybody who isn’t called a saint, isn’t one.

(General silence; the audience feeling themselves on the verge of the Infinities—­and a little shocked—­and much puzzled by so many questions at once.)

L. Besides, did you never hear that verse about being—­called to be “saints”?

May (repeats Rom. i. 7).

L. Quite right, May.  Well, then, who are called to be that?  People in Rome only?

May.  Everybody, I suppose, whom God loves.

L. What! little girls as well as other people?

May.  All grown-up people, I mean.

L. Why not little girls?  Are they wickeder when they are little?

May.  Oh, I hope not.