It's like dropping the curtains on the outside darkness when night comes on, godmother says, and turning up the lights and stirring the fire, and making it so bright and cheerful and sweet inside that you forget how dark it is outdoors.
"And maybe if I can do that, and think all the time about the beautiful things I have seen and read, I can make up stories some day as they did their poems and hymns.

I will write fairy tales that the children will love to listen to and ask to hear, over and over again.

I know I can do it, for the ones I've made for Davy he likes best of all.

I'd never hope to write stories that grown people would be interested in, and love as they love Tusitala's, but just to be the children's 'tale-teller,' and to write stories that they would listen to long after I am dead and gone--why _that_ would be worth living for, even if I never saw the light again.

And godmother thinks I can do it." "I know you can," assented Lloyd, warmly, "and we'll copy them for you, and send them away to be put into books." "Joyce," asked Betty, "would you mind reading that little newspaper clipping to the girls about the Road of the Loving Heart?
I want them to know about it, too." She did not know that they had already heard it, listening outside her door with heavy hearts and troubled faces, and when Joyce had found it and again read it aloud, she told them the story of the memory road that she was trying to leave behind her.
"It will be harder to do now that I am blind," she said, at the last, "for I can't help being a care and a trouble to everybody, everywhere I go now.