ness of knowing, of understanding; the happiness of resignation; the happiness of accepting one's own smallness . . . and of not being angry and bitter because of all the mistakes . . . and of being grateful for what is beautiful and clear and true. . . ."
"Grateful . . ."
"For the great dream. . . . And the happiness of satisfying hunger and thirst . . . with that one, solitary little grain . . . and of no longer yearning for the great, great dream!"
"But yet remaining grateful . . ."
"Yes, grateful that the dream has been vouchsafed to us, that its radiance ever smiled upon us. . . ."
"But, Auntie, suppose it was no dream . . . but the very bread of life!"
"My child, who can tell you now what is the only bread of life? Now, you are only hungry for your dream . . . and, later, much later . . ."
"Have I hungered then . . . after nothing?"
"Perhaps."
"After nothing? Oh no!"
"Who can tell?"
"Auntie, is every one of life's parables so cruel in its worldly wisdom? Do they all teach that the great dream is nothing and the little grain, which comes so late, everything? . . ."
"I fear so, child."
