Black Bartlemys Treasure

"To-night," says she, "if my calculations be right, should be a new moon. And I am glad, for I do love the moon."

"Aye, but how should you judge this?" says I, wondering.

"Because I have kept a record, Martin. A stroke for each day and a cross for every Sunday."

"Excellent!" quoth I. "Then you will know how long we have lived here?"

"Two months and five days, Martin."

"So long a time?" says I amazed.

"Hath it seemed so very long?" she questioned.

"No indeed!" says I. "No, and there's the marvel!"

"'Tis no marvel, Martin, you have been too full of business to heed time. Let us reckon up what we have achieved thus far. First of all a three-legged stool for me--"

"Hairpins!" says I.

"A spoon, Martin, and shoes for me--"

"Lamps and candles!" quoth I.

"A table, Martin--"

"A fishing line and two hooks."

"Two armchairs, Martin, a cupboard and a press."

"A churn!" says I.

"You are forgetting our five pipkins, Martin."

"True," says I, "and clumsy things they are!"

"But very useful, sir! Next a fishing-net, and a bed for me. Here is fine achievement, Martin! Are you not proud to have wrought so much and with so little?"

"But there is much yet to do!" quoth I.

"So much the better!" says she. "Thus far I am well content."

"And happy?" I demanded.

"Aye, Martin--are you?"

Now at this I fell to profound reverie and she also, and this the subject of my musings, viz., In every man and woman born into this world (as it doth seem to me) God putteth some of His infinite self whereby all things are possible in degree greater or smaller; for to the God within us all things are possible, 'tis our very humanity that limits our potentialities. Confidence in this power within us is a mighty aid to all endeavour whereby we, our coward flesh notwithstanding, may attempt great things, and though, being human, we ofttimes fail, yet this very effort strengthens and ennobles us.

"Who art thou," cries Flesh, "to adventure thing so great and above thy puny strength to perform? Who art thou?" "I am God!" answers Man-soul, "Since finite man am I only by reason of thee, base, coward Flesh." Thus (to my thinking) in every man is angel and demon, each striving 'gainst each for the soul of him; whereby he doeth evil or good according to the which of these twain he aideth to victory. Howbeit, thus it is with me, I being, despite my seeming slowness, of quick and passionate temper and of such desperate determination that once set on a course needs would I pursue it though it led to my own confounding and destruction. For now, indeed, I wrought that the which brought on my lady great sorrow and grievous peril, and on myself shame, bloodshed and a black despair, and this the manner of it.