“She has no business to give me lessons at all, and I won’t take them from her,” cried Olive passionately. “I hate being the one to be always taught. They think themselves so superior and are always stooping to raise me. Let them raise themselves first. I can see where Mary Winkle needs teaching and correction as plainly as anybody. She is only communistic in regard to things she doesn’t really care about.” “No, no Ollie, darling. It is really a deep conviction with us all, although in this case most unkindly illustrated,” said Ezra gently. “I know you think so in all honesty, but it isn’t so in reality. Nobody is nor can be communistic about what they love, if it is real love. If they are communistic about a thing it is because they don’t really care.” Ezra knew by the pang of jealousy in his own heart that this was an insurmountable truth his little wife was hurling forth in her anger. “Mary Winkle isn’t communistic. I’m not clever and able to say wise things and use long words that amaze people like Brother Wright, but for all that I can see some things clearly enough. Mary Winkle isn’t any more communistic than I am, only we love different things.” “I think you mistake,” said Ezra. “No, I don’t mistake one bit. Let Mary Winkle, if she is communistic in all the moods and tenses, lump her child with the two little Carpenters and draw lots to take one of the three for her own. Would that satisfy her heart, although the precious principles would be right enough? Of course not, because her heart would step in and claim its own by the divine right of love. I should be thoroughly communistic on the score of these children. I shouldn’t mind to draw lots as to whether Willette or Nelly or Johnny Carpenter was going to come to live with me. One would do as well as another, and I could be thoroughly communistic, because I don’t love any of them very deeply. My little flowers I did love. It wasn’t that I had worked for them and grudged the fruit of my labour. I would work in a turnip field and let anyone who liked have the turnips, nasty, watery, pulpy things, but I loved those flowers and tended them and they were mine. I don’t care about the philosophy of the question. You will perhaps some day see what I mean, Ezra, and understand me. I know you don’t now. You think me a silly child.”