The Man and the Child.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVI, Issue 1, 5 July 1911, Page 8

The Man and the Child.

(By THE MAN.) She was young, fresh, girlish, with longings and hopes beyond her years, lie was old in the ways of the world —disillusioned, cynical. She gazed out on the sea, and said how infinite it seemed, and how cramped was her life by comparison. “Oh,” she cried, “how 1 wish 1 could < ross the oceans, how 1 long to see other lands, to mix with other people! You think me silly because I don’t know things. If 1 could only be clever and know things! 1 can’t tell you what I feel. But, oh, you know!” And the wise man did know, but he only sighed. For she was a creature of moods and impulses—one whose outlook was the outlook of the bright-eyed child who knew nothing as yet of life’s realities. And he had crossed many oceans, he had learnt many languages, he had seen life at its best, life in all its glitter, and life at its worst, lie knew the longings of the human soul, the longing to love, and to be loved. He knew, also, human frailty and sin, and how the sweetness of youth is lost in the dusty highways of the world. He read in that pure, eager face the womanly desire to be worthy of one who might some day seek her as his own. She fancied knowledge was the key to power. She did not know that grace and goodness were higher far than any learning, and she possessed that fineness of mind and soul that makes men believe in the divine. Yes; he had known it once in the long, long ago before his own life had been seared ami hardened by the world. And because he knew men ami knew life, he answered: “My dear child, a woman is always better educated and has travelled further than any man. A woman lives in thought and instinct, and travels in the fairy realms of her own imagining.

A true man loves a true woman all the more for all her tender insufficiencies.” “Oh, but,” she said, “I feel so ignorant. If I was only clever, I wouldn’t mind.” The wise man pondered over his own life. He saw himself as the brilliant schoolboy. carrying off prize after prize; as the university scholar; as the famous orator; as the distinguished man of letters. He recalled the applause of multitudes after some great speech, the congratulations of critics on his books, the words of praise from college profes-

sors on his degree. And what had it all meant? Nothing, absolutely nothing, Once he had loved, once he had believed. But now he was hard and cynical. Why had this child already made his heart feel softer, and broken through his reserve? And, again, the voice beside him spoke: “Don’t you think people ought to be forgiving? I always think you ought to make it up with people you have quarrelled with. Some people don’t, but I think they ought.” She had taken of! her hat, and was unconsciously picking at a bit of thread. A ray of sunlight glinted on her wavy hair, and lit up her fair, eager face. “Don’t you think so?” she said as she saw him remain silent. But he did not answer. He was thinking of the words: “A little child shall lead them.” Had this child been sent to lead him? It might be God’s way still. lie felt ashamed of his past life with its bitter unbelief. The shadows were vanishing in the light. The sun came out from behind a cloud, light fell full on a face exquisitely pure and delicately framed. The man's fastidious taste took in every feature—the thin, delicate, lines that told of gentle birth: the eager look, the sensitive, sympathetic mind that lay beneath. “If I was only clever, I wouldn't mind.” She had been clever enough to lift at least one soul from this dull earth to yon bright heaven above.”