It was a saucy Pipkin, though a very winning one, and it had all the health and strength the poor Pot lacked--physically. Morally--morally, that young Pipkin was in a most unwholesome condition. Already its fair, smooth surface was scratched and fouled. It was unmindful of the treasure of good it contained, and its responsibility to keep that good intact. And it seemed destined to crash itself to pieces among pots of baser metal. What the Luckless Pot did was little--being ignorant of the art by which diamonds may be attained easily and honestly--but it gave the little Pipkin a chance. What the Pipkin did with that chance the Pot learned to-night, with such pleasure and satisfaction as made it impossible for him not to share it with her. So while he sent Burnett out to the conservatory to cut azaleas, he wrote her a note to try to convey to her what he felt when, in that nicely polished, neatly decorated and self-respecting Vessel on exhibition in Mrs. Gates' red room, he recognized the poor little Pipkin of other days. The Pot, as you know, was a sort of stranded bit of clay that had never filled the use for which pots are created. He had little human to interest him. The fate of the Pipkin, therefore, he had often pondered on; and, in spite of improbabilities, had had faith in a certain quality of brave sincerity the little thing showed; a quality that shone through acquired faults like a star in a murky sky. This justification of his faith in the Pipkin may seem a small matter to make so much of. And yet the Pot--that sleeps not well o' nights, as is the case with damaged pots--will take to bed with him to-night a pretty, pleasant thought due just to this. But do not think the Pot an idealist. If he were, he might have been tempted to mistake the Pipkin for a statelier, more pretentious Vessel--a Vase, say, all graceful curves and embossed sides, but shallow, perhaps, possibly lacking breadth. No, the Pipkin is a pipkin, made of common clay--even though it has the uncommon sweetness and strength to overcome the tendencies of clay--and fashioned for those common uses of life, deprivation of which to anything that comes from the Potter's hands is the most enduring, the most uncommon sorrow. O pretty little Pipkin, thank the Potter, who made you as you are, as you will be--a thing that can cheer and stay men's souls by ministering to the human needs of them. For you, be sure, the Potter's 'a good fellow and 'twill all be well.' For the Pot--he sails shortly, or rather, he is to be carted abroad by some optimistic friends whose hopes he does not share--to a celebrated repair shop for damaged pots. Whether he shall return, patched and mended into temporary semblance of a useful Vessel; whether he shall continue to be merely the same old Luckless Pot, or whether he shall return at all, O Pipkin, does not matter much.