sang:

My Father is rich in houses and lands,
He holdeth the wealth of the world in His hands!
Of rubies and diamonds, of silver and gold,
His coffers are full--He has riches untold.
I'm the child of a King! the child of a King!
With Jesus my Saviour, I'm the child of a King!

What did this mean but that she had discovered that her cramped and
narrow life had a spacious white margin after all? In a recent speech
at Glasgow, Mr. Lloyd George told a fine story of a quaint old Welsh
preacher who was conducting the funeral service of a poor old fellow, a
member of his church, who, through no fault of his own, had had a very
bad time of it. They could hardly find a space in the churchyard for
his tomb. At last they got enough to make a brickless grave amidst
towering monuments that pressed upon it, and the old minister, standing
above it, said, 'Well, Davie, vach, you have had a narrow time right
through life, and you have a very narrow place in death; but never you
mind, old friend, I can see a day dawning for you when you will rise
out of your narrow bed, and find plenty of room at the last. Ah!' he
cried in a burst of natural eloquence, 'I can see it coming! I can see
the day of the resurrection! I can see the dawn of immortality! There
will be room, room, room, even for the poor! The light of that morning
already gilds the hilltops!' What did he mean, that old Welsh
minister, as he shaded his eyes with his hands and looked towards the
East? He was pointing away from life's black and crowded letterpress
to the white and spacious margin--the margin with the gilt edge--that
was all.

VII

LILY

I was once advised to write a novel. I scouted the suggestion at the
time; I scout it still. If you write a novel, you run a great risk.
One of these days somebody may read it--you never know what queer
things people may do nowadays. And if somebody should read it, your
secret is out, and the paucity of your imagination stands grimly
exposed. No, I shall not write a novel, although this article will be
something in the nature of a novelette. For I have found a heroine,
and many a full-blown novelist, having found a heroine, would consider
that he had come upon a novel ready made. My heroine is Lily; and
Lily--to break the news gently--was a pig. I say _was_ advisedly, for
Lily is dead, and therein lies the pathos of my story. And so I have
my heroine, and I have my story, and I have my str