It is not the light-bringer who suffers when the torch is torn from his hands; it is those whose paths he would lighten.
And more and more, as the days went by, Rosalind and I found the life of the Forest stealing into our old home.

The old monotony was gone; the old weariness and depression crossed our threshold no more.

If work was pressing, we were always looking through and beyond it; we saw the fine results that were being accomplished in it; we recognised the high necessity which imposed it.

If perplexities and cares sat with us at the fireside, we received them as friends; for in the light of Arden had we not seen their harsh masks removed, and behind them the benignant faces of those who patiently serve and minister, and receive no reward save fear and avoidance and misconception?
In fact, having lived in Arden, and with the consciousness that we might seek shelter there as in another and securer home, the world barely touched us, save to awaken our sympathies and to evoke our help.

It had little to give us; we had much to give it.