chubby legs recovering power of movement, she toddled quickly off,
strewing the ground with daisies as she went. Covering her retreat,
Ambrose remained facing the cow, and walked slowly backwards still
brandishing his hat; then, one quick glance over his shoulder assuring
him of Dickie's safety, he too took to his heels, and scrambled through
the gap.

That was certainly brave of Ambrose; for though Farmer Snow told them
afterwards, "Thuccy black coo never would a touched 'ee," still she
_might_ have, and for the moment Ambrose was a hero.

The children carried home an excited account of the affair to their
father, penetrating into his very study, which was generally forbidden
ground.

"And so it was Ambrose who went back, eh?" he said, stroking Dickie's
round head as she sat on his knee.

"Yes, father," said Pennie, very much out of breath with running and
talking, "we were all frightened except Ambrose."

"And why weren't you frightened, Ambrose?"

"I was," murmured Ambrose.

"And yet you went?"

"Yes. Because of Dickie."

"Then you were a brave boy."

"A brave boy, a brave boy," repeated Dickie in a sort of sing-song,
pulling her father's whiskers.

"Now I want you children to tell me," pursued the vicar, looking round
at the hot little eager faces, "which would have been braver--not to be
frightened at all, or to go in spite of being frightened?"

"Not to be frightened at all," answered Nancy promptly.

"Do you all think that?"

"Yes," said Pennie doubtfully, "I suppose so."

"Well," continued the vicar, "I _don't_ think so, and I will tell you
why. I believe the brave man is not he who is insensible to fear, but
he who is able to rise above it in doing his duty. People are sometimes
called courageous who are really so unimaginative and dull that they
cannot understand danger--so of course they are not afraid. They go
through their lives very quietly and comfortably, as a rule, but they do
not often leave great names behind them, although they may be both good
and useful.

"Others, again, we are accustomed to consider cowards, because their
active, lively imagination often causes them to see danger where there
is none. These people do not pass such peaceable lives as the first;
but there is this to be remembered: the same nature which is so alive to
fear will also be easily touched by praise, or blame, or ridicule, and
eager therefore to do its very best. It is what we call a `sensitive