rstand," said Andy.

"Well, and it will be hard for people to understand _you_ when you're
at that sort of Work. They know well enough what you're about as long
as you turn 'em out yards of flannel down at Glastonbury, don't they?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," said Andy.

"And it would be the same way if you were a smith and turned 'em out
horse shoes, or a bill clerk and turned 'em out bills. They'd understand
_that_."

"Oh, yes, indeed," said Andy.

"But the trouble with that work-with-a-little-'w' is that you do it only
for the pay there is in it--never for the love of it--that's why it
seems to you a shame to waste your whole life at it, you know."

"Indeed it does, and that's why I'm here away from it all," said Andy.

"All very well for a while," said the Voice. "But you'll have to keep on
at it somewhat--say, half your life at work-with-a-little-'w,' sitting
at your machine down yonder at the mill, turning 'em out the stuff they
know to be useful."

At that Andy fell silent and was sad again. Where would he find a
beginning at the Big-"W" Work? he asked himself.

But the Voice seemed to know what was in his mind, and answered him:
"I can give you that sort of Work. But it will take the best there is
in you to do that sort of Work; and the Work will surely die as soon
as you've accomplished it. And there will be no money in it for you,
at all, and a great deal of pain, care and weariness. But you will find
great love in your Work, and for your Work; and though it all vanishes
at once you will experience so wonderful a joy that it will seem as if,
night and day, God is whispering the secrets of life in your ear."

"What is the Work like?" asked Andy.

"Would you be willing to try it? Remember, it is difficult and wearying
and is dead as soon as it is born."

"Yes, by glory, I would," shouted Andy.

"_Then dress this maid until you die!_" commanded the Voice.

At the words, my friend, there was music of a million armies of all
sorts of birds, whistling and whirring over the green earth; and the
echoes of their tremendous singing shook all the trillions of tiny new
leaves and made the waves of air to dance--how shall I say?--like the
waves of a sea of music running out forever.

And there, on the grass, sure enough, was a little naked baby girl just
able to stand.

Very quiet, she was, and she looked up at Andy with eyes of a fairy
blue--as if they'd been colored by that very same fairy that goes about
wit