I am afraid that there is certain amount of muddle about these two names—Tower Bank House and the Tower Bank Arms. It is the same sort of confusion that people often feel about the names of Near and Far Sawrey, for Far Sawrey is nearer Windermere and the ferry, when approached from the east, and Near Sawrey is farther away. Why is Far Sawrey not called Near? people often ask. And why is Near Sawrey not called Far?

This seemingly illogical bit can be very simply explained, but you have to come at it from the other direction: that is, from the west. (Illogical things often clear themselves up when you turn them upside down, or wrong side front, or inside out.) Then you will see that Near Sawrey is nearer the market town of Hawkshead, while Far Sawrey is farther away by a half mile or so. If you are still muddled, you might want to glance at the map at the front of this book, which may help to unmuddle you.

The confusion in names came about many years ago, when Tower Bank House was home to the village squire, who imagined himself somewhat grander than he was. It happened that the pub—known for many years as The Blue Pig—was put up for sale, and since the price was reasonable, the squire thought he would buy it. However, upon reflection, it seemed to him that owning a “Blue Pig” was a notch or so beneath him, and that he would rather own a “Tower Bank Arms,” which sounded a good deal more impressive. The villagers found this funny (they still called the pub The Blue Pig) but off-comers were terribly confused. Some who wanted a bed at the Tower Bank Arms found themselves ringing the squire’s door bell, whilst those who had business at Tower Bank House ended up with a half-pint at the pub.

The squire is dead and gone, but the names have lived on. Now, Tower Bank House is the home of Captain and Mrs. Miles Woodcock. Captain Woodcock—a fine-looking, capable gentleman, respected by all who know him—is retired from His Majesty’s Army and serves as the justice of the peace for Claife Parish. This position requires him to hear complaints, witness documents, certify deaths, deal with disturbances of the peace, and the like, so that the captain finds himself involved in a great many aspects of village life and feels entitled to hold a general opinion about all of it (even those parts that are none of his business).

The new Mrs. Woodcock (the former Margaret Nash) retired from her position as headmistress of Sawrey School upon the announcement of her engagement to the captain. They were married by the vicar at St. Peter’s in a ceremony that was attended by everyone in the parish, and afterward feted at a lovely garden reception at Raven Hall (Mrs. Kittredge of Raven Hall is the captain’s sister). Mrs. Woodcock misses her work with the children, although she is very happy with her new position as mistress of Tower Bank House. It took a little while, but she and Elsa Grape (the captain’s cook-housekeeper) have come to an understanding about who is to make the menus and oversee the tweeny. Now that the duties have been equitably divided (at least from Elsa’s point of view), the household is humming along quite peaceably.

Tonight, the captain and his wife are entertaining the captain’s closest friend, Mr. Will Heelis, at dinner. They would have invited Miss Potter as well, if they had known of the secret engagement. But since it is still a secret and nobody knows, they didn’t—and anyway, Mrs. Woodcock had not yet heard that Miss Potter had arrived from London and was in residence at Hill Top. So to make four, they invited Jeremy Crosfield, a favorite former student of Mrs. Woodcock’s and a recent graduate of Kelsick Grammar School in Ambleside.

Jeremy (whom I’m sure you remember from earlier books in the series) is now eighteen, tall and stalwart, with reddish-brown hair, wide-spaced gray eyes, and fine, regular features. He has taken Mrs. Woodcock’s place as teacher of the junior class at Sawrey School, where the young boys in the class particularly benefit from his teaching and his example. He might have gone on to university (with the help of Major and Mrs. Kittredge, who offered), but he decided to spend this year practicing the botanical illustrations that are his passion, which I think is a very good idea. He is already quite a competent naturalist, and the time away from formal studies will give him the opportunity to develop his art, for which he has a true gift.

The fish and soup had already been removed and the company was enjoying lamb cutlets, carrots and cauliflower, and Pommes de Terre Duchesse. (Mrs. Woodcock had got the recipe out of Mrs. Beeton’s, but it was nothing more, Elsa said with a sniff, than fried potato cakes dressed up with a fancy French name). Jeremy was young enough not to be intimidated by formal dinner-table rules and enlivened the conversation with his funny tales of the doings of the schoolchildren. Mrs. Woodcock smiled at his stories, but she was a bit misty-eyed, since she missed her charges and was sometimes sorry that she could not go back to teaching.

From there, the talk turned to the subject of the evening’s meeting at the pub: Fred Baum’s hydroplane. As it turned out, the captain had a definite opinion about this flying machine, and it was not in agreement with Mr. Heelis’ position, or anybody else’s at the table—or in the village, for that matter. He was very much in support of the thing.

“I am sorry, my dear,” he said in response to his wife’s complaint about the hours she had spent with cotton stuffed in her ears. “But I am afraid we shall just have to learn to live with the noise—at least while the machine is under development here in the area. In fact, we should applaud it. The hydroplane is progress. It is necessary to our national defense.”

Mrs. Woodcock looked unconvinced.

“Our national defense?” Mr. Heelis asked mildly, picking up a slice of bread. “And why is that, Woodcock?”

The captain waved his fork. “Why, everyone knows the Germans are arming, Heelis. Just look at all the dreadnoughts they are building. And I read in The Times that the German Military Aviation Commission has set a prize for the development of new aircraft. If we don’t build an aeroplane suitable for combat, they will. And then where will we be?”

“Indeed,” replied Mr. Heelis steadily. “The Germans are building one dreadnought for every one of ours. Once we start building aeroplanes for combat, they will, too.” His face was sober. “It is a race that neither side can win. And once entered into it, there’s no getting out—in my opinion, anyway.”

“I can’t agree with your premise,” said the captain firmly, who as a former military man was entirely convinced that his opinion about armaments was all that counted. “We must enter, and we shall win.” His voice rose. “Of course we shall win, and handily, at that. But we shall need aeroplanes, and plenty of them. Losses are likely to be high.”

“Because they crash so often, I suppose,” Jeremy put in. Even as a child, he had not learnt to hold his tongue and got into all sorts of trouble for talking back to his teachers. Now that he was a grownup, he enjoyed speaking up even more.

“Ah,” said Mr. Heelis approvingly. “Yes, Jeremy, indeed they do crash. Which is not to say that we should not have them,” he added. “Just that it would be better to fly them over the Channel, say, where, in case of a crash, people and animals on the ground are not injured. Not,” he said emphatically, “in the Lakes. Over our villages.”

The captain ignored both of them. “And some of those aeroplanes ought to be hydroplanes,” he went on, “so as to take off and land on water when necessary.”

“And is that why we must have that hydroplane flying over our heads from sunrise to sunset?” asked Mrs. Woodcock wearily. “Really, my dear, there ought to be a limit. Say, no flying between the hours of two and four, when the village children are having their naps. Otherwise, it is very inconvenient for their mothers. I wish you would tell that to Mr. Baum this evening.”

But Mrs. Woodcock spoke gently, so as not to be seen as disagreeing with her husband. She found that she adored him so amazingly that she could not bring herself to contradict him on even the slightest thing, even when she knew in her heart that he was wrong (as in this case). And since they had no children—not yet, at least—it was a matter of inconvenience chiefly to herself.

Her husband chuckled in a loving way. “Yes, of course I shall tell him, my dear, although I doubt he will comply. Baum is still testing his machine, you see, so it must be flown frequently and in all sorts of weather. It is still very experimental. The scientists are keen on learning all they can from every flight.”

Jeremy looked up from his cutlet. “Is that why Mr. Wyatt takes paying passengers?” he put in, somewhat ironically. “To test the machine?”

“Who is Mr. Wyatt?” Mrs. Woodcock inquired.

“The pilot,” Jeremy told her. “Oscar Wyatt. The machine was all his idea. Designed and built it. Mr. Baum put up the money, but he doesn’t know anything about aeroplanes.”

“Paying passengers?” the captain asked, frowning.

“Why, yes,” Mr. Heelis said. “Didn’t you know? People are lining up at the hangar where the hydroplane is kept, hoping for a ride. Wyatt charges them five shillings for thirty minutes in the air.”

“Five shillings!” Mrs. Woodcock asked, shocked. “Why, that’s outrageous! It’s half a week’s wages for most people.”

“It does seem rather excessive,” said the captain slowly. “But of course, there’s the fuel cost and—”

“I have heard from a reliable source,” Mr. Heelis said, “that Wyatt has it in mind to establish an aeroplane route between Bowness and Grasmere. It might be used to transport passengers, as well as the mail.” He looked straight at the captain. “I know that it seems hardly feasible, at least at this stage of the machine’s development. But who knows what advancements will be made in the next year or two.” He paused. “If commercial development is behind this project, would you support it?”

“An aeroplane route!” exclaimed Mrs. Woodcock, wide-eyed. “But that means that we shall never be rid of the wretched thing.”

The captain was somewhat flustered. “I was under the impression that this venture was created for the purpose of national defense. If there is a commercial aspect—” He stopped.

“If there is,” persisted Mr. Heelis, “would you support it? Bearing in mind,” he added, “that there was so much public opposition to building a railroad into the Lake District that the project failed. It would seem to me that there might be just as much opposition to an aeroplane route, and for some of the same reasons.”

Many had opposed the expansion of the railroad into the mountainous areas of the Lake District when it was proposed some years earlier, not only because of the noise and soot from the trains, but because they feared that increased tourism and commercial development would spoil the scenic landscape. On the other side of the issue, many argued that the railroad would be an economic boon to a struggling region, and that jobs were more important than landscapes any day of the week.

“I suppose I shall have to ask Baum to tell us what he has in mind,” the captain replied stiffly, now on his dignity. “I shall do that this evening.”

“Well, then,” Mr. Heelis said, “I think we can count on an interesting meeting. Assuming,” he added thoughtfully, “that Baum actually tells us what he and Wyatt are planning. I am not at all sure that he will. This aeroplane of theirs is surely a long way from any commercial use, but neither of them will want word of a possible air route to get out. Some other aeroplane developer might come along and trump them—or attempt to buy them out. Or people might start organizing an opposition.”

The captain did not reply to this. Instead, he looked down the table at his wife. “My dear, will you ring for Mrs. Grape? I believe we are ready for our dessert. What are we having?”

“A Charlotte Russe,” said Mrs. Woodcock proudly, having also got that recipe from Mrs. Beeton. In case you don’t know, this is an elaborate dessert in which a mold is made of ladyfingers, filled with a vanilla custard and decorated with fruit, berries, and whipped cream. Some say that it was created by the French Chef Marie-Antoine Carême and named in honor of his Russian employer, Czar Alexander, others that it took its name from Queen Charlotte, wife of George III. Mrs. Woodcock, being British, inclined to the latter view.

After the dessert was handed round and they had all begun to eat it, Mr. Heelis remarked, as if quite casually, “I understand that the vicar and Mrs. Lythecoe have set their wedding date.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Woodcock said happily. “It is to be on April twentieth. Not quite a month away.” Now that she is married, she feels it the most blessed state in the world and wishes that everyone else could enter into it, too.

“Seems like a good match to me,” Mr. Heelis commented. “I suppose everyone in the village is delighted.”

“Universally,” agreed Mrs. Woodcock.

“Not quite,” said Captain Woodcock.

“How so?” asked Mr. Heelis, all ears. (You can probably guess that he, like Miss Potter, is playing detective.)

“I’ve heard it said,” the captain replied slowly, “that a few people object on the ground that Mrs. Lythecoe was married to the former vicar. Apparently, it seems a bit . . . well, incestuous. Or something equally ridiculous.”

“Miles!” exclaimed Mrs. Woodcock, scandalized. She framed the word incestuous with her lips, but could not bring herself to say it aloud.

“But the two vicars were not related, were they?” Jeremy asked curiously.

“Cousins, as it turns out,” the captain replied.

“Is that right?” Mr. Heelis raised an eyebrow. “I’d never heard that.”

“First cousins,” said the captain. “Reverend Sackett was appointed to the living after the death of Reverend Lythecoe, who was his mother’s sister’s oldest son. I heard this,” he added, “from the vicar himself, several years ago. At the time, it was not widely known, I believe.”

“And it is now?” Mr. Heelis asked, frowning.

“Well, I don’t know about ‘widely,’ ” the captain said. “But I’ve heard talk of it, yes. As I said, a few seem to disapprove.”

“But who?” Mrs. Woodcock persisted.

“And why?” Jeremy asked, frowning. “I mean, what business is it of theirs who anybody marries?” There was a tone in his voice that suggested a deeper sort of interest, perhaps personal. This makes me a little curious, and I wonder if there’s something in Jeremy’s life that we don’t know about. We shall have to look into it, I think. Perhaps it is part of our story.

“What business?” The captain gave a short laugh. “Why, nobody’s business, of course. The marriage violates no laws. But that doesn’t keep people from objecting. Specifically,” he added, in answer to his wife’s question, “I overheard Henry Stubbs and George Crook discussing the matter at the pub.”

“Which probably means that it is their wives who object,” Mrs. Woodcock said darkly. “I shall have to ask Elsa. Bertha Stubbs and Mathilda Crook spend far too many afternoons with her in our kitchen, gossiping.” It was an activity she had been longing to curtail but had not thought it prudent whilst she and Elsa were negotiating more important matters, such as authority over the menu. (The captain’s sister, Dimity, who had charge of her brother’s household until her marriage to Major Kittredge, had not been courageous enough to challenge Elsa, who over the years had assumed full control in the kitchen.)

Mr. Heelis made a mental note to ask Mrs. Woodcock how her inquiry turned out. Aloud, he said, “Please also tell Mrs. Grape, from me, that her Charlotte Russe is delicious.” Mrs. Woodcock brightened. “Elsa will be very glad to hear that.” She looked around the table. “Now, then. Would you like to have coffee before you go?”

The disappointment did not dawn for some time, however. It had clouded up before sunset, and by the appointed hour, an intermittent March rain was falling. This did not reduce the attendance, and as the hour grew near, more and more villagers—both men and women, because the women had very strong opinions on this subject—streamed into the main room of the pub. The space is not large, as you will know if you have visited the place, and it wasn’t long before the room was packed so tightly that not another person could have squeezed in. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and the familiar fragrances of garlic, onions, and wet wool and filled with the buzz of voices and the music of Sam Stem’s merry concertina.

At last, pub owner Lester Barrow sent his oldest son to stand by the door and tell people that they could not come in until someone went out, and to hold the door open in order to bring in a breath of cooler, rain-washed air. Lester did this with some regret, naturally, for the more people who packed themselves into his pub, the more half-pints of ale he would sell in the course of the evening. He was enough of a businessman not to miss this chance.

Some of the people crowding the pub were villagers whose names and faces are familiar to us. Lady Longford (as you know, she changed her mind and decided to come) had arrived early and was seated at a table in the front of the room, with her granddaughter, Caroline. Jeremy, seeing Caroline (who had been his friend during their days together at the village school), made straight for the table and sat down beside her. Within a moment, the two were deep in conversation.

Beside the bar stood Major Kittredge, master of Raven Hall. The major had lost an arm and an eye fighting with the Boers in South Africa, but those losses only seemed to add to his stature in the district, especially since his marriage to Captain Woodcock’s sister, Dimity, a match that everyone had heartily approved. The major, wearing his customary black eye-patch, was chatting with Roger Dowling, the village joiner. Joseph Skead (the sexton at St. Peter’s) and his wife, Lucy, the village postmistress, sat at a nearby table. In the corner sat George Crook, the blacksmith, and his wife, Mathilda, as well as Constable Braithwaite, who was not wearing his blue serge uniform, since he was not on duty. Mr. Sutton, the veterinarian, was there, and the Jenningses as well (Miss Potter’s farmer and his wife). Oh, and Miss Potter herself, seated in a chair near the fireplace. With a smile and a warm greeting (but not as warm as he would have liked to make it, since this was a public place), Mr. Heelis joined her, as Captain Woodcock motioned to Sam Stem to stop playing his concertina, stepped up on a bench, and convened the meeting.

Of course, the minute everyone grew quiet and began to look around, they saw that Mr. Baum had not yet arrived. Major Kittredge made a motion to wait for fifteen minutes, and Lester Barrow happily seconded it, giving latecomers a chance to throng the bar and get their half-pints. But in fifteen minutes, the absent man had still not arrived, and people had begun to whisper that he had deliberately stayed away—an insult, of course, to Lady Longford, who had made a special effort to come.

Scowling, Captain Woodcock waited another ten minutes, then called the meeting to order, saying that even if Mr. Baum wasn’t there to hear it, everyone ought to have a chance to speak. He requested that speakers limit themselves to three minutes each, and set his pocket watch on the bar, where he could see it.

He invited Lady Longford to speak first (an acknowledgment of her importance in the village). She, however, declined to speak at all, since Mr. Baum was not there to listen. She was clearly irritated, glaring at the captain as if it were his fault that Mr. Baum had not arrived and was heard to mutter that she was sorry she had come out on such a night, on a fool’s errand.

The captain next invited Major Kittredge to speak. The major summed up the problem in a few terse words: “The issue is whether we are to lead our accustomed quiet lives here, or be bombarded daily with an infernal noise. I hereby move that we form a committee to discuss this matter with Mr. Baum, and present our views forcefully. Woodcock, I suggest that you chair it.”

“Second the motion!” Roger Dowling shouted. “But Major Kittredge ought to be on the committee, too.”

“Moved and seconded,” the captain announced. “Is there any discussion?”

There was, and plenty of it. One after one, the village men stood up and said what was on their minds. They were irritated and angry at the noise, concerned for the health and safety of their animals, and offended at the idea that the absent Mr. Baum—someone they knew, one of their neighbors—would so blatantly disregard their safety and comfort.

And as it sometimes happens in meetings like this, the more people stood up to speak, the angrier everyone became, and by the time the last person had spoken, the room was crackling with rage. These wrathful fires continued to burn as the captain adjourned the meeting and people began to leave the pub.

A group of men came out of the door and paused in front of the pub, heads together, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against the mist.

“I’m givin’ that fool Baum a piece o’ my mind when I see him,” growled the normally staid Roger Dowling. “ ’Twere reet bad-mannered o’ ’im to agree to talk wi’ us tonight an’ then stay away.”

“Ought to give ’im a good smack on t’ head wi’ a big board,” avowed George Crook. He grinned darkly. “That ’ud set ’im straight.”

“Mappen that’s wot I’ll do next time he gets on me ferry,” said Henry Stubbs, the ferryman.

“Smack Baum on t’ head an’ then throw him overboard,” laughed Lester Barrow, who had come out just then. He had a great deal to laugh about. His ale kegs were empty and his till was full. “That’d put an end to t’ aeroplane business.”

“Mebbee sumbody’s a’reddy done that,” suggested Roger Dowling slyly, “an’ that’s why he’s not here.”

The men looked from one to another, a trifle uneasily, then Lester Barrow laughed again, scoffing this time. “Doan’t be silly, Roger. Baum stayed away ’coz he already knew wot he’d hear an’ he had no intention o’ listenin’. Anyway, if Baum decided not to go on wi’ the project, that pilot o’ his—Oscar Wyatt—he’d find a way. That aeroplane is here to stay, like it or not.” Barrow turned and went back into the pub to count the cash in his overflowing till.

But Roger Dowling wasn’t finished. “Wotever may be up wi’ Baum,” he growled, “that aeroplane ain’t here to stay. We canna have machines buzzin’ in t’ air over our heads, scarin’ animals and frayin’ nerves. We’re goin’ to fix it, we are.”

“Aye?” George Crook asked skeptically. He and Roger had been friends for a long time—his blacksmith’s forge was next door to Roger’s joinery—but he was a careful man who hated to go out on a limb. “Wot dusta mean by ‘fix’?”

“An’ who is ‘we’?” Henry Stubbs asked. “I hate that flyin’ machine as much as th’ next ’un, but—” He stopped, looking wary. Henry was full enough of talk, but wasn’t always willing to put his muscle where his mouth was.

Roger looked over his shoulder to make sure that no one was listening. “I’ll tell thi wot I heard from Baum’s odd-jobs man. Baum sacked ’im last week and he’s mad enough to chew horseshoe nails. T’ fella says mebbee we woan’t have to listen to that aeroplane much longer.”

“That ’ud be auld Paddy Pratt, now, wouldn’t it?” asked Henry. Paddy was a well-known village character who hired himself out at the homes of the local gentry, doing repairs, lending a hand with the garden, running errands. He was generally liked but not much trusted, at least by those who knew him well. “Paddy Pratt is nivver up to awt good. Goosey, he is. Dunno as I’d trust any bright ideas that started wi’ him.”

“Jes’ hear me out,” Roger said. “But afore I tell thi wot’s afoot, tha’ll have to swear not to tell nawt to noboddy.”

“I’ll listen,” George said. “And I’ll promise. If Paddy’s got a way to scotch that aeroplane, I’m all fer it.” And with that, the three of them faded into the dark.

At that moment, Captain Woodcock, Mr. Heelis, and Miss Potter came out of the pub together.

“It’s too bad Baum wasn’t here to listen to village opinion,” Mr. Heelis said regretfully.

“Yes, indeed,” Miss Potter agreed. “Why do you suppose he stayed away?”

“Kittredge and I shall find out when we speak to him tomorrow,” promised the captain. He smiled at Miss Potter. “Now that you’re back in the village, I do hope you’ll join Mrs. Woodcock and me for tea one afternoon.”

Miss Potter returned the smile. “Why, thank you, Captain. I should be glad to.”

When the captain had gone, Will Heelis leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Earlier this evening, I heard from Captain Woodcock that Bertha Stubbs and Mathilda Crooke are opposed to Mrs. Lythecoe’s marriage to Reverend Sackett. It seems that they are offended because she was previously married to the vicar’s cousin. It crossed my mind that this might have something to do with those letters.”

“Well, if that’s their objection, it’s very silly,” Beatrix replied. “Thank you, Mr. Heelis. I’ll see what I can find out.” She held out her hand, quite properly. “Good night.”

He pressed her fingers with a quite improper passion, then raised his hat and smiled. “Good night, my dear Miss Potter. Good night.” (You and I know that these two are engaged, but I doubt if anyone looking on would have suspected a thing—and their secret is safe with us.)

Beside the road, Jeremy Crosfield was handing Caroline into her grandmother’s carriage. “I should like to come and see you in a day or two,” he said as she settled her skirts. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a chance to talk.”

Lady Longford frowned. “I do not see the need—”

“Of course you may come, Jeremy,” Caroline said, smiling warmly. “Grandmama, Jeremy and I will go out into the garden, so as not to disturb you. I’m sure it won’t be too cold.”

“Thank you,” Jeremy said, avoiding Lady Longford’s barbed glance. “Day after tomorrow, then? At four? I’m finished with school by that time.”

“Day after tomorrow,” Caroline promised happily. “At four.”

“Harumph,” her ladyship said, and raised her voice. “Drive on, Beever!”

Jeremy stood in the dark and watched the carriage drive off, the lantern swinging on its hook, casting swaying shadows through the dark. He was thinking—what is he thinking? He is surely remembering Caroline when they were both students at the village school: she a leggy, lonely young girl, longing for her native New Zealand; he shy and awkward and conscious that she was the granddaughter of the wealthiest woman in the district.

Or perhaps he has forgotten their shared past (how long ago? five years, six?) and is thinking only of the present, reflecting that this grownup young lady, with her clear gray eyes and sweet smile, her fair hair pinned up on her head, is the most charming girl he has ever seen, charming and utterly, utterly desirable.

He has asked permission to call—I wonder: is it just a friendly visit, for old times’ sake? Or is he actually imagining that he might court this lovely and accomplished young lady? After all, he now has a paid position. He is a teacher, which is a situation of some honor and standing in the village, especially when it is held by a man, even a young man. There is no reason why, if he chooses, he might not advance to headmaster, at Sawrey School or Hawkshead, or somewhere nearby.

But I am sure you are aware that Jeremy has no status at all in the eyes of Lady Longford, who still thinks of him as that runny-nosed urchin whose aunt resides in one of her farm cottages and earns a poor living spinning and weaving. No, not in the eyes of Lady Longford. If Jeremy has courtship in mind, I foresee complications.

But our young friend does not seem to be troubling himself with the thought of complications, at least not at this moment. Whistling softly, his hat pushed back at a jaunty angle on his head, Jeremy pushes his hands into his pockets and, with a little skip, turns to go across Kendal Road and up Market Street. He has been boarding with Mr. and Mrs. Llewellyn at High Green Gate since the beginning of the school year, for it is not nearly so far to walk from there to the school as it is from the outlying cottage at Holly How Farm, where his aunt lives. He enjoys boarding with the Llewellyns. Mrs. Llewellyn is rather a sourpuss and fault-finder, but Mr. Llewellyn is always cheerful. He allows Jeremy to do the milking before school—a chore Jeremy enjoys—in exchange for his board and room.

Ah, Jeremy, young Jeremy. What are your dreams? Are you reaching above yourself?

And yes, I do think this is part of our story, and an important part, I believe—although I wasn’t sure of it until just now.