en to the talk of the men one had admired and longed to see--Plato,
let me say, and Shakespeare, Walter Scott, and Shelley--some of the
immortals. But I don't seem to have seen anything of them--only just
ordinary and simple people."

Amroth laughed.

"You do say the most extraordinarily ingenuous things," he said. "In the
first place, of course, we have quite a different scale of values here.
People do not take rank by their accomplishments, but by their power of
loving. Many of the great men of earth--and this is particularly the
case with writers and artists--are absolutely nothing here. They had, it
is true, a fine and delicate brain, on which they played with great
skill; but half the artists of the world are great as artists, simply
because they do not care. They perceive and they express; but they would
not have the heart to do it at all, if they really cared. Some of them,
no doubt, were men of great hearts, and they have their place and work.
But to claim to see all the highest spirits together is as absurd as if
you called on a doctor in London at eleven o'clock and expected to meet
all the great physicians at his house, intent on general conversation.
Some of the great people, indeed, you have met, and they were very
simple persons on earth. The greatest person you have hitherto seen was
a butler on earth--the master of your College. And if it does not shock
your aristocratic susceptibilities too much, the President of this place
kept a small shop in a country village. But one of the teachers here
was actually a marquis in the world! Does that uplift you? He teaches
the little girls how to play cricket, and he is a very good dancer.
Perhaps you would like to be introduced to him?"

"Don't treat me as a child," I said, rather pettishly.

"No, no," said Amroth, "it isn't that. But you are one of those
impressible people; and they always find it harder to disentangle
themselves from the old ideas."

I spent a long and happy time in the school. I was given a little
teaching to do, and found it perfectly enchanting. Imagine children with
everything greedy and sensual gone, with none of the crossness or
spitefulness that comes of fatigue or pressure, but with all the
interesting passions of humanity, admiration, keenness, curiosity, and
even jealousy, emulation, and anger, all alive and active in them. They
were not angelic children at all, neither meek nor mild. But they were
generous and affectionate, and it