Ian Hay

“ Cradock smiled, perseveringly.
‘Shady is a rather misleading term, Molly—especially applied to you. The shade you cast is a healing shade, always. You’re a human oasis—something very rare, and soothing—’
‘O-o-oh!’ breathed Molly.
—‘And refreshing—that a traveller, if he is lucky, may encounter just once or twice in his journey through—the wilderness.’
‘Has your journey taken you through the wilderness much?’ inquired Molly, deeply intrigued.
The wanderer shrugged his shoulders, philosophically.
‘I suppose it has, most of the time. I’m not kicking; one takes the rough with the smooth. ”

“ It’s chiefly a matter of luck, and how one begins.’
‘Of course, it doesn’t do to begin wrong,’ agreed Molly, nodding a wise head.
‘No. But sometimes, early in life, before we are able to see very clearly ahead—when we are young, and impulsive—’
‘I’m terribly impulsive, Mother says.’
‘—we take a step which carries us off the green path, and points us straight for the wilderness. And before we know where we are, we find ourselves right in the middle of it. And some of us never get back.’
‘Has that happened to you?’ asked Molly, in grave concern. ”

“ And then, steadily, unfalteringly, line by line, word by word, quaintly reproducing every inflection of her mother’s voice, Molly told to Denis Cradock the tale of the man who died to save a little girl in a white frock. ”