“Yes, dear; but you are a Butterfly and have a butterfly’s standard. Gabriel and I aim to be gardeners, who make it possible for butterflies to circle about and enjoy themselves without bad boys catching them and pulling their wings off. But you have grown astonishingly, since I first knew you, in spite of yourself. You used to find nothing better to do than kill time with a procession of admirers. Now you have outgrown that. And you were dependent on your husband for your very bread. Now you are able to stand on your own feet, and are a self-supporting, useful member of society. Don’t you see, dear, that the lesson every soul must learn sooner or later, here or elsewhere, is to be able to stand alone? Each of us, woman or man, must fulfill the purpose of creation, which is to grow toward perfection, and we can’t do that by leaning on somebody else. Woman is a human being as is man, and is responsible for her own destiny. The responsibility can’t be put upon another.” CHAPTER XV. IT IS WELL WITH THE CHILD. Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer; Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer. --_Richard Realf._ Mrs. Doring had a friend, a gentle, patient, heavily-burdened woman who lived her difficult life with the high heroism of a daughter of the gods. Though fragile as a flower she kept the wolf at bay for her little family, and nobody ever saw a cloud on her face or heard a complaint from her lips. Born and bred to the refinements of life she met adversity as only the gently bred do meet it--by taking hold of whatever work was at hand, without questioning whether it was what is miscalled menial or not. When her baby girl was born she begged Cartice to name her, which she did, giving her the name of the little sister who had died when she herself was a child--Isabel. To her mother’s great delight she grew to resemble Mrs. Doring as though of her flesh and blood, and loved her in the same degree. Now she was nearly three years old, bright and winsome, with never a day’s illness in her record. But a fever came, and behind that stood the last enemy, who, however often routed, is sure to return sometime and win the battle. This was the time of his victory. In the night, when all was silent without, and solemn within, he came. Cartice had the baby in her arms in the last precious, awesome moments. The wasted little hand reached up and silently stroked her face, and the soft, dark eyes, unearthly large and earnest, looked at her with unutterable love. Something else, too, was in their speechless depths--a message not easy to translate, but it brought comfort. Then, that mysterious thing, the breath, which connects us with the universal life principle, ceased; the cold white veil dropped down, and little Isabel was dead.