Nobody

"Some people try," said Lois.

"And that trying must make life a servitude."

"Service – not servitude!" exclaimed Lois again, with the samewholesome, hearty ring in her voice that her companion had noticedbefore.

"How do you draw the line between them?" he asked, with an inwardsmile; and yet Mr. Dillwyn was earnest enough too.

"There is more than a line between them," said Lois. "There is all thedistance between freedom and slavery." And the words recurred to her,"I will walk at liberty, for I seek thy precepts;" but she judgedthey would not be familiar to her companion nor meet appreciation fromhim, so she did not speak them. "Service," she went on, "I think isone of the noblest words in the world; but it cannot be renderedservilely. It must be free, from the heart."

"You make nice distinctions. Service, I suppose you mean, of one'sfellow creatures?"

"No," said Lois, "I do not mean that. Service must be given to God. Itwill work out upon one's fellow-creatures, of course."

"Nice distinctions again," said Mr. Dillwyn.

"But very real! And very essential."

"Is there not service – true service – that is given wholly to one'sneedy fellows of humanity? It seems to me I have heard of such."

"There is a good deal of such service," said Lois, "but it is not thetrue. It is partial, and arbitrary; it ebbs and flows, and chooses; andis found consorting with what is not service, but the contrary. Trueservice, given to God, and rising from the love of him, goes where itis sent and does what it is bidden, and has too high a spring ever tofail. Real service gives all, and is ready for everything."

"How much do you mean, I wonder, by 'giving all'? Do you use the wordssoberly?"

"Quite soberly," said Lois, laughing.

"Giving all what?"

"All one's power, – according to Foster's judgment of it."

"Do you know what that would end in?"

"I think I do. How do you mean?"

"Do you know how much a man or a woman would give who gave all hehad?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"What would be left for himself?"

Lois did not answer at once; but then she stopped short in her walk andstood still, in the midst of rain and wind, confronting her companion.And her words were with an energy that she did not at all mean to givethem.

"There would be left for him – all that the riches and love of God coulddo for his child."

Mr. Dillwyn gazed into the face that was turned towards him, flushed, fired, earnest, full of a grand consciousness, as of a most simpleunconsciousness, – and for the moment did not think of replying. ThenLois recollected herself, smiled at herself, and went on.

"I am very foolish to talk so much," she said. "I do not know why I do.Somehow I think it is your fault, Mr. Dillwyn. I am not in the habit, Ithink, of holding forth so to people who ought to know better thanmyself."

"I am sure you are aware that I was speaking honestly, and that I donot know better?" he said.

"I suppose I thought so," Lois answered. "But that does not quiteexcuse me. Only – I was sorry for you, Mr. Dillwyn."

"Thank you. Now, may I go on? The conversation can hardly be sointeresting to you as it is to me."

"I think I have said enough," said Lois, a little shyly.

"No, not enough, for I want to know more. The sentence you quoted fromFoster, if it is true, is overwhelming. If it is true, it leaves allthe world with terrible arrears of obligation."

"Yes," Lois answered half reluctantly, – "duty unfulfilled is terrible. But, not 'all the world,' Mr. Dillwyn."

"You are an exception."

"I did not mean myself. I do not suppose I do all I ought to do. I dotry to do all I know. But there are a great many beside me, who dobetter."

"You agree then, that one is not bound by duties unknown?"

Lois hesitated. "You are making me talk again, as if I were wise," shesaid. "What should hinder any one from knowing his duty, Mr. Dillwyn."

"Suppose a case of pure ignorance."

"Then let ignorance study."

"Study what?"

"Mr. Dillwyn, you ought to ask somebody who can answer you better."

"I do not know any such somebody."

"Haven't you a Christian among all your friends?"

"I have not a friend in the world, of whom I could ask such a questionwith the least hope of having it answered."

"Where is your minister?"

"My minister? Clergyman, you mean? Miss Lois, I have been a wandererover the earth for years. I have not any 'minister.'"

Lois was silent again. They had been walking fast, as well as talkingfast, spite of wind and rain; the church was left behind some time ago, and the more comely and elegant part of the village settlement.

"We shall have to stop talking now," Lois said, "for we are near myplace."

"Which is your place?"

"Do you see that old schoolhouse, a little further on? We have that forour meetings. Some of the boys put it in order and make the fire forme."

"You will let me come in?"

"You?" said Lois. "O no! Nobody is there but my class."

"You will let me be one of them to-day? Seriously, – I am going to waitto see you home; you will not let me wait in the rain?"