"'Father and mother and the ancestors before them have done much to bequeath those mental qualities to us, but that which scrubs them into us, the clinch which makes them actually ours and keeps them ours, and adds to them as the years go by,--that depends on our own plod in the rut, our drill of habit, in a word our 'drudgery.' It is because we have to go and go morning after morning, through rain, through shine, through toothache, headache, heartache to the appointed spot and do the appointed work, no matter what our work may be, because of the rut, plod, grind, humdrum in the work, that we get our foundations. "'Drudgery is the gray angel of success, for drudgery is the doing of one thing long after it ceases to be amusing, and it is 'this one thing I do' that gathers me together from my chaos, that concentrates me from possibilities to powers and turns powers into achievements. The aim in life is what the backbone is in the body, if we have no aim we have no meaning. Lose us and the earth has lost nothing, no niche is empty, no force has ceased to play, for we have no aim and therefore we are still--nobody. Our bodies are known and answer in this world to such or such a name, but, as to our inner selves, with real and awful meaning our walking bodies might be labelled 'An unknown man sleeps here!' "'But we can be artists also in our daily task,--artists not artisans. The artist is he who strives to perfect his work, the artisan strives to get through it. If I cannot realize my ideal I can at least idealize my real--How? By trying to be perfect in it. If I am but a raindrop in a shower, I will be at least a perfect drop. If but a leaf in a whole June, I will be a perfect leaf. This is the beginning of all Gospels, that the kingdom of heaven is at hand just where we are.'" "Oh!" cried Evadne, drawing a long breath, "that is beautiful! I feel as if I had been lifted up until I touched the sky." "Marthe," exclaimed Mr. Everidge reproachfully, suddenly appearing in the doorway with a sock drawn over each arm, "it is incomprehensible to me you do not remember that my physical organism and darns have absolutely no affinity." Mrs. Everidge laughed brightly. "If you will make holes, Horace, I must make darns," she said. "Not a natural sequence at all!" he retorted testily. "When the wear and tear of time becomes visible in my underwear it must be relegated to Reuben." "But Reuben's affinity for patches may be no stronger than your own, Uncle Horace," said Evadne mischievously.