... This you would think a great thing! And do you not think it
a greater thing that all this (and how much more than this) you can do
for fairer flowers than these, flowers that could bless you for having
blessed them, and will love you for having loved them; flowers that have
thoughts like yours, and lives like yours, and which, once saved, you
save for ever? Is this only a little power? Far among the moorlands and
the rocks, far in the darkness of the terrible streets, these feeble
florets are lying, with all their fresh leaves torn and their stems
broken; will you never go down to them, nor set them in order in their
little fragrant beds, nor fence them, in their trembling, from the
fierce wind?"
Engrossed with the voice, Hazel has been walking on, little heeding
whither she goes, when, as its tones die away, a groan startles her. How
terrible its sound; how incongruous, interrupting the soft harmonious
chorus of the soaring, singing birds! So painfully near it seemed, too,
it could but have been a very little distance off outside that gate
which she sees before her.
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