tle human to
interest him. The fate of the Pipkin, therefore, he had often pondered
on; and, in spite of improbabilities, had had faith in a certain
quality of brave sincerity the little thing showed; a quality that
shone through acquired faults like a star in a murky sky.

This justification of his faith in the Pipkin may seem a small matter
to make so much of. And yet the Pot--that sleeps not well o' nights,
as is the case with damaged pots--will take to bed with him to-night a
pretty, pleasant thought due just to this.

But do not think the Pot an idealist. If he were, he might have been
tempted to mistake the Pipkin for a statelier, more pretentious
Vessel--a Vase, say, all graceful curves and embossed sides, but
shallow, perhaps, possibly lacking breadth. No, the Pipkin is a
pipkin, made of common clay--even though it has the uncommon sweetness
and strength to overcome the tendencies of clay--and fashioned for
those common uses of life, deprivation of which to anything that comes
from the Potter's hands is the most enduring, the most uncommon sorrow.

O pretty little Pipkin, thank the Potter, who made you as you are, as
you will be--a thing that can cheer and stay men's souls by ministering
to the human needs of them. For you, be sure, the Potter's 'a good
fellow and 'twill all be well.'

For the Pot--he sails shortly, or rather, he is to be carted abroad by
some optimistic friends whose hopes he does not share--to a celebrated
repair shop for damaged pots. Whether he shall return, patched and
mended into temporary semblance of a useful Vessel; whether he shall
continue to be merely the same old Luckless Pot, or whether he shall
return at all, O Pipkin, does not matter much.

But it has been well that, before we two behind the veil had passed, we
met again, and you left me such a fragrant memory.

LATIMER."

* * * * * * * * * *

O Maggie, Maggie, some day I hope to see that man and tell him how
sorely the Pipkin needed the Pot's letter!

IX.

It's all come so quick, Maggie, and it was over so soon that I hardly
remember the beginning.

Nobody on earth could have expected it less than I, when I came off in
the afternoon. I don't know what I was thinking of as I came into my
dressing-room, that used to be Gray's--the sight of him seemed to cut
me off from myself as with a knife--but it wasn't of him.

It may have been that I was chuckling to myself at the thought of Nancy
Olden w