I am not. I do hope, as I say, to teach
them something; but those whom I succeed in so teaching will share in the
delight it will give me to write about what I love most.
As far as I can remember, I will tell how this Sunday-evening class began.
I was sitting by Constance's bed. The fire was burning brightly, and the
twilight had deepened so nearly into night that it was reflected back from
the window, for the curtains had not yet been drawn. There was no light in
the room but that of the fire.
Now Constance was in the way of asking often what kind of day or night it
was, for there never was a girl more a child of nature than she. Her heart
seemed to respond at once to any and every mood of the world around her.
To her the condition of air, earth, and sky was news, and news of poetic
interest too. "What is it like?" she would often say, without any more
definite shaping of the question. This same evening she said:
"What is it like, papa?"
"It is growing dark," I answered, "as you can see. It is a still evening,
and what they call a black frost. The trees are standing as still as if
they were carved out of stone, and would snap off everywhere if the wind
were to blow.
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