object to attain. I have a friend who is like that. He is what
would be called an unsuccessful man; he has never had time to do his
own talents justice, because his energies have always been at the
service of other people; if you ask him to do something for you, he
does it as exactly, as punctually, as faithfully as if his own
reputation depended upon it. He is now a middle-aged man with hundreds
of friends and a small income. He lives in a poky house in a suburb,
and works harder than anyone I know. If one meets him he has always the
same beautiful, tired smile; and he has fifty things to ask one, all
about oneself. I can't describe what good it does one to meet him. The
other day I met a cousin of his, a prosperous man of business. "Yes,"
he said, "poor Harry goes on in his feckless way. I gave him a bit of
my mind the other day. I said, 'Oh, it's all very well to be always at
everyone's beck and call, and ready to give up your time to anyone who
asks you--it is very pleasant, of course, and everyone speaks well of
you--but it doesn't pay, my dear fellow; and you really ought to be
thinking about making a position for yourself, though I am very much
afraid it is too late.'"

The prosperous cousin did not tell me how Harry received his advice;
but I have no doubt that he thought his cousin very kind to interest
himself in his position, and went away absurdly grateful. But I would
rather, for all that, be in Harry's poky lodgings, with a treasure of
love and service in my heart, than in his cousin's fine house in the
country, the centre of a respectful and indifferent circle.

Of course there is one sad reflection that rises in one's mind at the
thought of such a life as my friend lives. When one sees what a
difference he makes to so many people, and what a beautiful thing his
life is, one wonders vaguely why, if God makes men as he wills, he does
not make more of such natures. They are rare; they are the salt of the
world; and I suppose that if the world were all salt, it would not be
so rich and beautiful a place. If everyone were like Harry there would
be no one left to help; and I suppose that God has some reason for
leaving the world imperfect, which even we, in our infinite wisdom,
cannot precisely detect.

XXV

It is such a perennial mystery to me what beauty is; it baffles me
entirely. No one has ever helped me to discover in what region of the
spirit it abides. The philosopher begins by telling you