The Door in the Wall

by Marguerite de Angeli

been a cathedral, as indeed it looked to be. For the trees, bare of leaves, arched overhead in the very same way that the groined arches of stone swept up high overhead in the Gothic churches. “Maybe that is where the idea came from,” thought Robin.

The weather was neither fair nor rainy, neither hot nor cold, but somewhere in between, “as English weather is like to be,” said the friar.

“Each of us has his place in the world,” he said. “If we cannot serve in one way, there is always another. If we do what we are able, a door always opens to something else.” There it was again, Robin thought, a door.

Fret not, my son. None of us is perfect. It is better to have crooked legs than a crooked spirit. We can only do the best we can with what we have. That, after all, is the measure of success: what we do with what we have.

“It will be good for thee even in the chilly autumn weather,” he comforted, when Robin shivered at the thought of the icy water. “It sends the blood flying through thy veins to warm thee. Besides, it strengthens thy body and, best of all, it strengthens thy spirit to do a hard thing.”

Then he plunged into the icy water, not allowing himself to consider whether he had the courage to do it.

“The courage you have shown, the craftsmanship proven by the harp, and the spirit in your singing all make so bright a light that I cannot see whether or no your legs are misshapen.”