ing, thinking, I cannot tell for how long--or rather feeling than
thinking, at the moment. When I left the chapel and came out again into
the glare and the rush and the confusion, then I began to think,
mother. I went off to another quiet place, by the bank of the river,
and sat down and thought. I can hardly tell you how. The image of that
infinite repose I carried with me, and the rush of human life filled
the streets I had just come through behind me, and I looked at the
contrast of things. There, for ages already, that quiet; here, for a
day or two, this driving and struggling. Even suppose it be successful
struggling, what does it amount to?'

'It amounts to a good deal while you live,' said Mrs. Dallas.

'And after?'--

'And after too. A man's name, if he has struggled successfully, is held
in remembrance--in honour.'

'What is that to him after he is gone?'

'My dear, you would not advocate a lazy life?--a life without effort?'

'No, mother. The question is, what shall the effort be for?'

Mrs. Dallas was in the greatest perplexity how to carry on this
conversation. She looked down on the figure before her,--Pitt was still
sitting at her feet, holding her two hands on either side of his head;
and she could admire at her leisure the well-knit, energetic frame,
every line of which showed power and life, and every motion of which
indicated also the life and vigour of the spirit moving it. He was the
very man to fight the battle of life with distinguished success--she
had looked forward to his doing it, counted upon it, built her pride
upon it; what did he mean now? Was all that power and energy and
ability to be thrown away? Would he decline to fill the place in the
world which she had hoped to see him fill, and which he could so well
fill? Young people do have foolish fancies, and they pass over; but a
fancy of this sort, just at Pitt's age, might be fatal. She was glad it
was _herself_ and not his father who was his confidant, for Pitt, she
well knew, was one neither to be bullied nor cajoled. But what should
she say to him?

'My dear, I think it is duty,' she ventured at last. 'Everybody must be
put here to do something.'

'What is he put here to do, mamma? That is the very question.'

Pitt was not excited, he showed no heat; he spoke in the quiet, calm
tones of a person long familiar with the thoughts to which he gave
utterance; indeed, alarmingly suggestive that he had made up his mind
about them.