fe that is
coming, and of all your aspirations and your dreams. And in the
stillness and the coolness and the peace you can dwell with confidence
upon the thought of all the Unknown that is moving onward towards you,
as the glow which is fading renews itself day by day in the East,
bringing the daily task with it.

You feel that you are able to meet it, and that all is well; that there
are quiet and good things in store, and that this constant renewal of
the glories of day and night, this constant procession of morning and
evening as the world rolls round, has become almost a special possession
to you, to which only those who pay the price have entrance, an
inheritance of your own as a reward of your endeavour and acquired
power, and leading to some purposed end that will be peace.

* * * * *

Stained-glass, stained-glass, stained-glass! At night in the lofty
church windows the bits glow and gloom and talk to one another in their
places; and the pictured angels and saints look down, peopling the empty
aisles and companioning the lamp of the sanctuary.

* * * * *

The beads worth threading seem about all threaded now, and the book
appears to be done. Thus we have gone on then, making it as it came to
hand, blundering, as it seems to me, on the borders of half a dozen
literary or illiterate styles, the pen not being the tool of our proper
craft; but on the whole saying somehow what we meant to say: laughing
when we felt amused, and being serious when the subject seemed so, our
object being indeed to make workers in stained-glass and not a book
about it. Is it worth while to try and put a little clasp to our string
of beads and tie all together?

There was a little boy (was he six or seven or eight?), and his seat on
Sunday was opposite the door in the fourteenth-century chancel of the
little Norman country church. There the great, tall windows hung in the
air around him, and he used to stare up at them with goggle-eyes in the
way that used to earn him household names, wondering which he liked
best. And for months one would be the favourite, and for months another
would supplant it; his fancy would change, and now he liked this--now
that. Only the stone tracery-bars, for there was no stained-glass to
spoil them. The broad, plain flagstones of the floor spread round him in
cool, white spaces, in loved unevenness, honoured by the foot-tracks
which had worn