Alva put her arms fondly about the pretty young thing. "Lassie," she said, "you are a dear, and I don't mind how much you discuss me with Ronald; but you musn't tell him Miss Lathbun's secret. It wouldn't be right."

"Very well, then, I won't," said Lassie; "and I will keep my word, too."

"Thank you," Alva said, patting her face caressingly; "thank you, and heaven bless you and give you a good understanding."

Lassie looked up with a smile. "You think I may learn to look at things in your way?"

"I think so," said Alva; "looking at things in my way has made me a very happy woman, and so I desire the same for you."

Then she kissed her good night.

CHAPTER IX
PLEASANT CONVERSE

"Well, what did I tell you?" said Mrs. Ray to Mrs. Catt, a day or so later, when that lady had dropped in for a little call. "Those two young people up at Nellie O'Neil's have fallen in love just as sure as beans are beans. Not that he's so young, either, but a man's always able to fall in love whenever he gets a chance. Age don't matter. There was Mr. Ray. He was always in love unless he was married. Yes, indeed."

"If he's engaged to that other one, I shouldn't think he'd find it very easy to fall in love right under her nose, so to speak," said Mrs. Catt.

"She wouldn't notice," said Mrs. Ray, adjusting her shawl, and turning the needlework in her hands; "she's the kind who don't even see the things they go headlong over. She's the mooney kind. I know. Yes, indeed. Mr. Ray had mooney days. There were days when Mr. Ray called me by his first wife's name all day. Those were his mooney days."

"My cousin Eliza thinks she's crazy too. She says she's seen her time and again setting on stumps in the woods, and she turns out in the road for sparrows. And then that house. They're at it tooth and nail from dawn to dark. I never see nothing like it."

"Yes," said Mrs. Ray; "there's others say that, too. She is queer! Nellie says she often doesn't eat breakfast – nor any meat either. And she talks about the dam as if we was all heathens laying the axe at the root of our own mothers. She says all the trees ought to belong to the United States Government. As if we wasn't singing 'Pass under the rod of the Republican party' from dawn to dark now. Such a country!"

"She goes down to see Mr. Ledge, too," pursued Mrs. Catt; "of course he don't want the dam, and he makes her more so. Josiah Bates was driving home from Castile the other day, and he saw her coming from there. Josiah said he was sure she'd been to see Mr. Ledge, 'cause she wasn't ten feet from the house, and they was waving their hands to her from the window. You can always depend on Josiah Bates knowing what he's talking about."

"Yes," said Mrs. Ray, turning her work about; "yes, Josiah Bates is a very careful observer. He'll never die of no fish-bone in his throat for want of watching the fish."

"Speaking of fish-bones," said Mrs. Catt, "have you seen Lottie Ann Wiley lately? There's a bag of bones for you!"

"Not for a week or so. Why? Is she thinner than she was?"

"Thinner! Well, I should say so. I don't know what the Wileys will do with that girl if she keeps on getting thinner and paler."

"She isn't any paler than that girl at Nellie O'Neil's."

"Which one?"

"That Lathbun girl. Do you know anything about them?"

"That's what every one's asking."

Mrs. Ray threaded her needle. "They're a queer pair," she remarked.

"Well, I should say so. They don't eat any breakfast, either; make it up on chestnuts. They're picking chestnuts all over. Lizzie says she never saw people making so free. Folks don't know what to say, but it riles a good many. They pick that little gray bag they've got full three or four times a day."

"Well, I declare," said Mrs. Ray; "do you suppose they eat 'em all?"

Mrs. Catt rose. "I only stopped for a minute," she said. "Oh, I don't know, I'm sure. Chestnuts is hearty, but seems to me they ought to ask at the houses, anyway. Mrs. Wiley says if they come to her trees again, she'll turn the bull in the lot."

"Must you go?" Mrs. Ray asked. "I thought Mrs. Wiley was afraid of the bull."

"Yes, I must. What you making?"

"I'm putting a new lining in this vest for Elmer Hoskins. His dog chewed it up, while he was asleep."

"Did he have it on?" Mrs. Catt asked in great surprise.

"No; he had it on the chair and it fell off."

"Fell off! I s'pose you've heard about Gran'ma Benton's parrot falling off?"

"Falling off what? No, I haven't heard."

"Fell off the perch. I saw poor Clay this morning, and he's half mad. The parrot and Gran'ma Benton have been discussing most all night lately, and the parrot gets so mad he hops all over and last night he got in a rage and fell off the perch. Broke the perch, too."

"Well, I declare," said Mrs. Ray; "why don't Clay show some spirit and put a stop to all that? I would."

"He can't. Gran'ma Benton's so fond of discussing, and if she didn't have the parrot she'd soon wear them all out."

"I thought she was wearing them out as it is."

"Well, yes – " Mrs. Catt looked cornered, "but, anyhow, they don't have to do the talking now – the parrot does it. I'd like to see my husband's mother have a parrot – that's all!" Mrs. Catt twitched her shawl expressively.

"Poor Clay Wright Benton," said Mrs. Ray. "Just to look at him you'd know it all. I do despise men who haven't got any spirit; but if they have spirit of course they're almost worse to get on with. Yes, indeed."

"Yes, indeed!" said Mrs. Catt with meaning; "well, good-by, Mrs. Ray."

"Oh! Good-by."

Mrs. Catt went out.

It was only a few minutes later that Mrs. Wiley arrived, with another large bundle wrapped up in newspaper.

"Don't stop your work," she said, putting it down with a sigh. "Oh, you ain't sewing on my coat," she added, in a tone of deep disappointment, evidently seeing interruption in a changed light at once.

"No, but I've cut it out. What you got there?"

"I've got another suit of father's."

Mrs. Ray eyed the bundle with thoughtfully compressed lips, and gave her shawl a fresh tuck.

"What you want made out of this one?"

Mrs. Wiley hesitated. "It's such a handsome piece of cloth," she said, "I'm willing to leave the cut to you, but I thought maybe you could get a winter jacket for Lottie Ann out of this one?"

Mrs. Ray compressed her lips more, and frowned. "I don't know about that," she said, shaking her head. "I've had trouble enough with the last."

"This was his new when he died. After he reached three hundred. And it isn't worn anywhere. You can get her big sleeves out of the hips, I think."

"There's a good deal to a coat beside the sleeves," said Mrs. Ray; "that coat of yours has most drove me mad. I never thought of your bringing me another. Well, unroll it and let me look at it."

Mrs. Wiley began to unfasten the package.

"Any moth-holes in this one?" Mrs. Ray asked, with professional interest.

"None to speak of. The only real hole is where he sat down on a engine spark at the station, the day of his last shock."

"It isn't the suit he had on when the oil-tank exploded, then?"

"No," said Mrs. Wiley; "that was the last but one. The oil-tank was the middle one of his three shocks."

She unfolded the garments and spread them out. Mrs. Ray watched her, and continued her work at the same time.

"How's Lottie Ann?" she asked, presently.

"Oh, she's poorly," said Mrs. Wiley. "We're getting awful worried over Lottie Ann. I thought maybe you could get her fronts out of his fronts; you see, she's slimmer than I am."

"But her big spread will come lower than yours," said Mrs. Ray; "is there any up and down to the cloth? How much does she weigh, anyhow?"

"Yes, there is an up and down. Ninety-six last time. That's mighty little for her height. She only wanted it short, anyway."

"It'll have to be short. Yes, indeed. Why you must have weighed most double that at her age. It's too bad men always have pockets."

"He would have them; you know how father always set store by pockets. There, that's the engine spark. I don't know, I'm sure, what we'll do about her. Mr. Wiley says his grandmother went just so – " Mrs. Wiley's voice broke suddenly; she took out her handkerchief and dried her eyes. "Do you see any way to getting the fronts out?" she asked, falteringly, after a minute.

"You musn't look to the worst that way," said Mrs. Ray, soothingly; "those thin girls pick up wonderfully. The only way I see is if you've got braid. If you've got any braid, I can piece it back of the braid. She may marry and be as well as any one. Look at her great-grandmother you just spoke of. Yes, indeed."

"I haven't got any braid. But I can buy some. Judy was up from the St. Helena road yesterday, and she said to give her milk – all she'll drink."

"Turn it over so I can see the back," said Mrs. Ray; "will she drink it, though? That's the question. She was up for the mail two nights ago, and I thought she looked pretty well-willed. That's a nice piece of cloth. My, but you were lucky he didn't have it on when the oil-tank exploded. Yes, indeed. It's better cloth than the other."

"Yes, that's what I think. That's just the trouble, Mrs. Ray; she will not drink it."

"You never was severe enough with her. Not but what if it hadn't burnt through you could get the oil out, maybe."

"I know it, but she's my only girl. I thought you could use the same buttons. Eleven boys, and then that one girl. She's named for Mr. Wiley's mother and my mother. Charlotte, you know. See, Mrs. Ray, there's six of each size, one on each cuff, too. And all so stout but her. The boys and their father got together on the hay scales the other day, and they went up over two thousand pounds. Did you hear about it?"

Mrs. Ray stopped sewing and scanned the new proposition with one eye half closed.

"I'd have to piece the sleeves; you'd have to make up your mind to that. Were they in the wagon?"

"No, just standing on the scales. You think you can manage it if you piece them – don't you?"

"Yes, I can manage it then. I can get my backs out below the knee, and get her sides out of his backs."

"Oh, Mrs. Ray, you've taken a load off my mind. I'm so glad to get these awful sad remembrances done some good with. I made pillow-slips out of his nightshirts, but his flannels will haunt me till I die. Eddy's the only one of the boys that is ever going to grow to them, and Eddy never wears flannel."

"I should think you could use 'em up to cover the ironing-table. Who did you say was picking chestnuts, – Mrs. Lathbun and her daughter?"

"I haven't said a word about them." Mrs. Wiley opened her eyes widely. "But I'm hearing about them all over. I don't believe she's her daughter any more than you are. They're a nice pair, those two. Chestnuts six dollars a bushel, and they picking them morn, noon, and night. Have you seen Sammy Adams? He took them in the night before they got here, you know. You heard of that."

"Yes, I did." Mrs. Ray's lips came together; "I shall ask him all about that taking them in, the first time I see him. Never bought a stamp yet! Such doings! They're not respectable. Don't tell me."

"You're terrible prejudiced in your opinions, Mrs. Ray; you judge everybody by the stamps they buy."

"It's all I have to judge strangers by," said Mrs. Ray, "and it's a pretty good guide, too. Mrs. Lathbun don't buy stamps and nobody can't tell me that she's on the square. Wait till I see Sammy!"

"When do you think you can try mine on?" asked Mrs. Wiley.

"Will next Thursday do?"

"Yes, I don't want to wear it till Thanksgiving; I won't go to Buffalo till Christmas. Lottie Ann won't want hers till then."

"I can do them both by Thanksgiving," said Mrs. Ray. "I've got a few little jobs to do for others, and I want to build a new back fence, and I guess I'm going to get the contract for whitewashing the church cellar, I'm bidding on it. But after that, except for my house-cleaning and my boarders and my regular duties under the United States Government, I haven't got anything particular on hand."

"I'll be so glad," said Mrs. Wiley, moving towards the door. "We're all so kind of upset about not knowing whether Uncle Purchase will come and live with us or not if the dam goes through, that I want to have my things in order, anyhow. He wrote, you know."

"No, I didn't know, but I guess he'll come and live with you, anyway," said Mrs. Ray; "good-by."

Mrs. Wiley went out, and before long there was another caller, – Clay Wright Benton himself this time, usually called "poor Clay Wright Benton" by his friends, for the simple reason that he was Sarah Benton's husband, and his mother's son.

"How d'ye do," he said, opening the door a few inches and looking in through it. "No, I won't come in; I only stopped to speak about the hay. You said I could have it, you know."

"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Ray; "but I said, if you came before October first. That's past now, and Elmer took it off yesterday. Him and his dog was here at sun up and away again by noon. You see now what it is to take your own time."

Clay Wright Benton stood still, turning his cap about and about.

"I thought you knew I wanted it," he said, finally; "I couldn't come sooner."

"I did know. But I thought you needed a lesson. Nobody that wants to get ahead in this world can take their own time. You've got to be a little ahead of other people's time if you really want to make your mark. How's Susan? Got back from her father's yet?"

"No," said the man; "she's going to stay till Thanksgiving. She was so awful tired of the parrot."

"Look out you don't leave her too long – same as the hay," said Mrs. Ray, cheerfully. "Who's that coming up the steps behind you? I can feel the draught as long as you stand there in the crack, but I can't see through your body."

Clay Wright Benton moved aside, and Mrs. Dunstall pushed past him. "I'm sorry I was late about the hay," he said then, and went slowly away. Mrs. Benton and his mother had left very little spirit in him.

"What did he come for?" asked Mrs. Dunstall, shutting the door tightly. "I'm sorry for Susan. She married him for his looks, and looks is all he ever had to give her." The attitude of the community was that of larger communities towards the humbly unsuccessful in life.

"He ain't giving her even looks, any more," said Mrs. Ray; "she's gone home, and his looks is gone heaven knows where. No man was ever so handsome yet that he could rise above needing to shave."

"He'll make his fortune if the dam goes through, though," observed Mrs. Dunstall; "he owns all the land above Ledgeville."

"He'll never see her for dust then," said Mrs. Ray, drily. "She'll leave him to keep house for Gran'ma Benton and the parrot. Well, what did you come for?"

"I was walking by, and I thought I'd just stop and ask you if you'd heard about that Mrs. Lathbun and her daughter staying all night with Sammy Adams? Josiah Bates was up that way for a load of apples and he heard of it."

Mrs. Ray became rigid. "I have heard of it," she said; "but not from Sammy. He was here and never said a thing about it, but some one else told me. So it's all over town now, is it?"

"They was walking across country and there came on a rain and they stopped for shelter and it was Sammy's where they stopped."

Mrs. Ray sewed very fast. "I always said they were tramps anyway," she said, haughtily; "now you'll all see."

"Seems funny Sammy never told you about it."

"Well, he never did."

"He tells you everything – don't he?"

"I thought so."

"It couldn't be he really took a fancy to either of 'em," reflected Mrs. Dunstall; "I don't think they're good-looking."

"Good-looking!"

"But you know, men are queer, Mrs. Ray. There was Mr. Ray. He was queer."

Mrs. Ray gave her thread a jerk that broke it.

"They never get any letter, do they? You said they never did, didn't you?" Mrs. Dunstall was all query.

"No, they never get any letters."

"They claim to come from Cromwell, don't they?"

"I don't know. I never heard. I wouldn't believe anything they said. No trunks and stealing chestnuts all over. I never!"

"Wouldn't it be a funny thing if, after all these years, some stranger like those two was to come in from saints-know-where and marry Sammy?"

"Yes, it would be funny," said Mrs. Ray, "very funny. Yes, indeed. Yes, it would be very funny!"

"I thought I'd just stop and tell you," said Mrs. Dunstall. "I knew you'd be interested. I know you're such a friend of Sammy's. I thought if you knew, maybe you could look 'em up a little. Nathan's got an aunt living in Cromwell. If I was you I'd look 'em up, Mrs. Ray."

Mrs. Ray opened her scissors like the jaws of a shark.

"I am looking 'em up," she said, and the scissors closed with a snap full of meaning; "they'll soon find what it means to get no letters and write no letters and stop with Sammy Adams when it rains. Yes, indeed."

Two hours later every one in the township – that is, every one except the boarders of the O'Neil House – knew that Mrs. Ray was actively advocating an investigation into the Lathbuns' history.

"I guess she'll find out a good deal," said Samuel Peterkin to Judy, as they drove home towards the St. Helena road.

The scene far and near was one maddest autumn blaze of beauty.

"Mrs. Ray will never let up on him till she does," said Judy; "she's awful mad at Sammy."

The road bent between giant pines, and revealed the gray facade of the High Banks beyond, stretching in gigantic grandeur between the black shadows below and the bewildering colors above.

"If these trees was down, what a long ways we could see along the river," said Samuel.

"Yes," said Judy, "trees is dreadfully in the way when you want to see. And to think that Mr. Ledge is always talking about having planted ten thousand of them. People are curious."

The sun came out upon the horizon behind them at that minute, and shot a shaft of glory down the cañon, illuminating all the gray rock with silver.

"There, now," said Judy; "it's late when it's like that. It's right in our eyes, too. We must hurry."

"I told you you were staying too long," said Samuel; "and you know as well as I do that nobody can trot the St. Helena hill."

CHAPTER X
THE BROADER MEANING

It is surprising how quickly any situation can be assimilated. Be it ever so pleasant or ever so painful, we get accustomed to its demands surprisingly soon, and whether it is the fact that one has just gotten a fortune, or just gotten the toothache, in either case it seems as if one had had it always, before one has hardly had it at all.

Lassie learned this with great rapidity. Before three days had passed by, she discovered that the deep and earnest joy in Alva's mind had eradicated all the horror in her own. Alva's love ceased to seem shocking – it seemed, instead, more like some beautiful, mysterious wonder. Lassie came to hear her friend talk without any distress – only with a sort of wistful ignorance – a longing to fathom depths not before even apprehended.

"It doesn't strike me as it did at first at all," she said to Ingram one night, as they went for the mail together. "All that I think of now is how happy she looks. Did you ever see any one look as happy as she does?"

"She's very happy, surely," said Ingram; "but what uses me up is that she is looking forward so. Why, that man is dying – he may die any day – and she thinks that he will come here. He can't ever come here, not possibly!"

"Oh, can't he?" Lassie cried, in real distress, "are you sure of that?"

"Of course. He knows it, too."

"But she doesn't know it?"

"No."

"Don't you think that he ought to tell her, then?"

Ingram did not speak for a minute. "Perhaps some miracle may come to pass, and he may live," he said then; "you see, he has lived three weeks longer than any man in his circumstances ought to expect to live."

"Oh, then he hasn't got to die soon?"

Ingram knit his brows in the dark. "I can't explain myself clearly," he said; "but it seems to me that he and Alva sort of rise above rules, so to speak. Part of the time she's as she always was – just as we are – and then again I feel as if she herself had gone and left me sitting with just a figure of some sort. – " He paused. "I expect he's the same way," he added, after a second; "it's all beyond me."

"It's strange, isn't it?" Lassie spoke thoughtfully. "She's very sweet and lovely, and dear with it all. But I know just what you mean; I've seen it, too. She is talking, and then she stops and that white look comes over her face, and I never speak then until she does. Do you know," she said, almost timidly, "I keep thinking of things I've read in books about the Middle Ages, – about saints; about 'ecstasy,' they called it. We say 'ecstasies' about hats, or little dogs, or the flowers at Easter; but when Alva has been talking about her life in that house and stops to think, and I see her face, I feel as if I understood what the word really and truly meant."

"I suppose there's no danger of her converting you," said Ingram; "it's all very well for her, but I should hate to have you that way."

"Why?" asked the girl, in surprise.

"It isn't human, that's why," the man declared, energetically. "We're past the Middle Ages," he added, with a little laugh, "far past now."

"You think that people can be too good?"

"Yes, I do. I wouldn't marry a woman like her for anything!"

"But you thought differently once," said Lassie, shyly.

"Yes," he said, easily, "I wanted to marry her once, but she wouldn't have it at all. Droll – isn't it?"

"We're ever so far by the post-office; do you know it?" she said.

"So we are; I'd forgotten all about the mail."

They turned back.

"But I don't believe that Alva ever could make you see life in the way that she does," Ingram said, tentatively; "does she ever try?"

"I don't think so," said Lassie; "she just talks to me of her happiness."

"What would become of the world, I wonder, if every one adopted her views," suggested the man.

They turned in at Mrs. Ray's gate just here. The mail was distributed, and every one else had taken theirs and gone.

"Well, you're a little late," said Mrs. Ray, cheerfully. "Mary Cody run up for the house letters when she saw you go by. Have a nice walk?"

"Yes, very," said Ingram.

"You're great walkers down your way. Mrs. Lathbun and her daughter walk all day long, seems to me."

"They do walk a good deal," said Lassie.

Then she and Ingram went back to the hotel. They found Alva standing by the dining-room door with her lamp and her letters in her hand. Mrs. O'Neil stood close before her.

"I wouldn't worry," said Alva to Mrs. O'Neil; "I don't believe one word of it."

"When they're out to-morrow I shall sweep the room myself," said Mrs. O'Neil, decidedly; "you can learn a good deal about people by sweeping their room." Then they all separated, Ingram going to his letters, their hostess to her husband, and Alva and Lassie to their cosy nest up-stairs.

"What was the matter?" Lassie asked, directly their doors were shut.

"Nothing especial," Alva said, laughing; "it was just that Mrs. Ray came here this afternoon and rather upset Mrs. O'Neil by talking about Mrs. Lathbun and her daughter."

"What did she say?"

"She didn't say anything in particular – she just talked."

"What did she talk, then?"

"She talked all sorts of things; she doesn't like them at all. She doesn't consider them nice."

Lassie was silent. She was conscious of a painful lack of admiration for either Mrs. Lathbun or her daughter, herself.

A freight train began to roll by and ended conversation for the time being. Alva went to the window and stood there. After a while she spoke musingly.

"Everything must have a purpose. Every action has to have a thought behind it. If we could only see through the veil!"

The train, which had come to a standstill, now began to move again, cracking and straining at first, then going on with a terrific roar.

"They serve their purpose surely – the freight trains," Alva said; "even if they did nothing else, their noise accomplishes something. One might forget life so easily in this corner of the world, if it were not for them."

Lassie laughed. "But they serve a few more purposes than that."

"Yes, of course. I never deny the broader meaning in life – if the world's view is the broader one – but trains mean such a great deal besides what they carry, in a little bit of a town. I used to think that they came pretty close to being all the meaning that life had to the people there, and I still wonder sometimes if it isn't so. I've lived here well over one week now, and really it seems to me that the trains, their comings and goings, and whether they do them on time or not, are the only topics of conversation that are ever broached."

"Perhaps they talk about other things when we're not around," suggested Lassie, wisely.

"I hadn't thought of that. Or perhaps they think the trains our only mutual interest. You know, Lassie, there really is no one that is stupid, unless you do your half towards being stupid, too. It's like the crash in the wilderness, which doesn't mean sound unless there are ears to hear it."

"I never thought of that," said Lassie; "isn't there really any sound in the wilderness? What happens when the tigers roar?"

"But of course they do talk about other things here," Alva continued, paying no attention to her friend's flippancy. "They talk about the dam, and they talk about me."

"What do you suppose they say about you?" Lassie asked, curiously.

"I know exactly what they say," Alva replied, a real amusement curling her lips; "they say that Ronald and I are going to be married and live in that house while he builds the dam."

"Oh!"

"Yes, indeed."

"But I didn't know that the dam was decided on."

"It isn't, my dear, and I don't believe myself that there ever will be any dam. I can't believe that this State, even in her grossest materialism, will have the face to accept a royal gift and then turn around and give it away in direct contradiction of the terms of its acceptance."

"Is it as bad as that?"

"It's very bad. That dear old gentleman has made the preservation of this wonder of nature the realized dream of his whole life. He's carried through no end of other big philanthropic schemes, but he never for one instant allowed anything to turn him aside from this one. He told me himself how he had rewooded the banks – he has planted thousands and thousands of trees – and now to have the whole threatened. It's shameful, shameful!"

"Does every one know how you feel?"

"Yes, every one knows how I feel."

"What do they think themselves?"

"I believe the predominant sentiment in Ledge is that it will be entertaining to see Ledgeville drowned for good and all."

Lassie laughed.

The freight train was all gone by now. Alva turned from the window and came back to a seat beside her friend, sinking upon it with a little sigh.

"All this goes very near with me, dear," she said, gently; "loving Nature and fighting for the future has been his life-work, you know."

"Yes," Lassie said, softly.

Suddenly the older one leaned close and put her arms about the young girl. "It's so heaven-blessed to have you here, – it makes me so happy."

"I'm very happy, too," said Lassie. "I never had just the feeling before in my life that I have with you these days – it's as if nothing could ever come between us. Sort of as if we had been sealed to a compact."

Alva patted the brown waves of hair. "That's the understanding of true friendship, dear," she said; "nothing ever can come between us. Once two people realize mutual truth, how can anything come between them again? All the trouble in the world arises out of falseness. Search in your mind, and see if it isn't so?"

Lassie reflected. "You're putting so many new ideas into my head," she said, "I suppose I'll go home with nothing of my old self left in me."

"Not quite that," said Alva. "Your old self wasn't so bad, Lassie, dear. But the world has a way of hammering all its votaries into a certain set of molds, and I'd like to see you casting, instead of cast, – do you know the difference?"

"Alva," said Lassie, with sudden appealing earnestness, "you weren't like this when I saw you last; what changed you?"

"I had the convictions then, but not the courage. Now I have the courage, too."

"What gave you the courage?"

"Surely you can divine?"

"Love."

"Yes, dear, love. Love for him. All courage has its root in love of some kind."

"Alva, you teach me more each day."

"Yes, and I'll teach you more and more and more yet, and so on and so on until we part, and then I'll go on learning myself."

"Hasn't your lesson any end?"

"Love hasn't any end, dear, any more than it has any beginning. And so my lesson hasn't any end, either."

"But – "

"I know what you are going to say, but that isn't real love. That which can end has never been, – all the real things in existence are eternal."

"But they – the people that – well, you know, they thought that it was love – didn't they?"

"Yes, dear, and little children think that there are bears in dark closets, and ever so many people think that money buys happiness. The world is full of lies, Lassie, but if one puts the test to them they all fade away. You don't understand yet – but wait."

"I want to understand."

"But you are not ready to understand yet."

"But I am ready, I will learn to be ready."

"Yes, and I'm going to teach you. But I have to go slowly because I have to hunt for the words. You are such a little thing – such a baby – to be trusted with life; because you see most people never live – they just exist. They are only a few steps up on the staircase, and when they are dragged or pushed above the place that they are in by nature, they are apt to be dizzy. I want to teach you life, Lassie; but I don't want to make you dizzy." She paused, and a whimsical little smile danced across her face; "and besides, dear, we must get undressed. It is after ten o'clock."

"Just a minute more, Alva; it seems as if I cannot break off right here. And I won't be dizzy. I know that whatever you think and do must be right and best. I want to learn to think just as you do. I want to be told how you learned. I always knew you were so very good, and truly, dear, I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd chosen to marry a missionary or to go to that island where the lepers are – not after the first minute, you know; it would have been just like you."