She looked at her cousins with a feeling nearly akin to envy. Their lives had no contrasts. Always this beautiful comradeship with father and mother; and Aunt Rutha was so lovely--she stopped abruptly. She would not change mothers. No, no, she would be loyal, even in thought, to the pale, tired woman, whom she could remember kissing her passionately in the twilight, while bitter tears rained on her childish, upturned face. She would not let the demon of discontent spoil her visit. She would put by and forget while she enjoyed this wonderful slice of pleasure that had come to her. There was just as much greed in her wanting happiness wholesale as in Lemuel's crying for the whole loaf of gingerbread; the only difference was in the measure of their capacity. 'What is it, dear?' asked Aunt Rutha, with an amused smile. 'You have been in the brownest of studies.' She looked up at her brightly. 'I believe it was a briar tangle, Aunt Rutha, of the worst kind; but I shall see daylight soon, thank you.' Mrs Davis laid her hand on her husband's arm. 'Your penknife, Robert. Our little girl here is tied up in a Gordian knot, and we must help to set her free.' Her uncle laughed as he opened the pearl-handled weapon. 'If good will can take the place of skill, I'll promise to cut no arteries.' Then he added more gravely, 'But you have nothing more to do with knots, my dear, of any kind. You belong to us now.' They discussed her a little in kindly fashion after she had gone to her room for the night. 'The child has the air of a princess,' said Mrs Davis thoughtfully. 'She holds herself wonderfully, in spite of her rustic training, but I suppose blood always tells'; and she looked over at her husband with a smile. 'She has wonderful powers of adaptability, too,' said Gwendolyn. 'I watched her at dinner, and she never made a single slip, although I imagine there were several things that were new to her beside the finger-glasses.' 'But she is intense, mamma!' and Belle heaved a sigh of mock despair. 'I don't believe she knows what laziness is, and I'm sure she will end by making me ashamed of myself. When I told her we had a three months' vacation, she never said, "How delightful!" as most girls would, but calmly inquired what I took up in the holidays, and when I groaned at the very thought of taking up anything, she said so seriously, "But you don't let your mind lie fallow for three whole months?" And then she sighed a little, and added, half to herself, "Some girls would give all the world for such a chance to read." I believe she is possessed with a perfect rage for the acquisition of knowledge, and when she goes to college will pass poor me with leaps and bounds, and carry the hearts of all the professors in her train.'