as in the symbol of the
old Apostle, "in Him we live and move and have our being." She
recalled that God had been defined in the consciousness of the race as
Love. Deep draughts of new existence whelmed her. No longer life
coursed somnolent through unconscious veins. Life ran riotous of
gladness tingling to a living joy so poignant it became pain. Was it
fool-joy born of swifter pulse and time-old inheritance in the flesh?
Was it the rhapsody of self-hypnotism, which ancients would have called
vision? Of such dreams does creation spring full born and enfleshed.
Of such dreams does heroism laugh at death. Of such dreams does life
invest the daily round with rain-bow mist, with the spectrum gamut of
all the colors that blend to the pure white light of daily life. As a
lense splits up light, so love had brought out the hidden colors of
existence, of eternity; as she dreamed, eternity itself seemed short.

Then came the restlessness that had shaken Wayland on the Ridge the
night before, the fire that tests the vessel; and whether the life go
to pieces depend on whether the vessel be both strong and clean. Yet
she was not afraid. She remembered their talk the night before of the
snow flake falling to the same law as the avalanche; and was she not
also a part of the Great Law?

She knew he could not be free till six. She must not go up to the
Ridge. Last night, she had gone heedlessly. She could never go so
again. Then, she realized why the Missionary's wife had linked her
fate with Williams'--a frail bit of china putting itself to the coarse
uses of earthenware--washing, scrubbing, sandpapering three generations
of morals and bodies to make an ideal real. It was Wayland who had
first described Mrs. Williams in that metaphor: "a piece of Bisque or
Dresden," he had said, "and what those lousy Indians need is a wooden
wash tub with lots of soft soap." Then, she wanted to see Mrs.
Williams, to study her with this new knowledge.

A picket fence in imitation of a home in the East ran round the Mission
House. Pitiful attempts at gardening lined the gravel entrance,
periwinkle dried up in the blazing Western sun, sickly scented
geraniums that shrivelled to the night frost, altheas that did better
but refused to bloom. "They don't transplant East to West, any better
than they do West to East. Better follow the Senator's advice and
domesticate our Western ones." Then, the whimsical thought came
perhaps that was