"You look it," agreed Jane, studying the photograph. "You certainly look it." She gave the little print one more careful examination, noting the steady gaze the pictured face gave back, a spirited expression very different from the half-moody look she had first known; then she put the photographs away and went about her work. And as she went, a little song sang itself over and over in her heart--the song of trust in a ripening friendship of the sort that makes life worth living. Spring and summer passed slowly by, marking a growing interchange of amenities between the little house in Gay Street and the big one in Worthington Square. Things had happened during the winter, things kept on happening as the year advanced, to draw the two families together. In January Shirley had had a long and severe illness, during which Mrs. Bell and Jane made their way into the inmost heart of every member of the household. There were nights during that illness when Joseph Bell, feeling that difference of social position counted for nothing when a father was in trouble, went over to shake Harrison Townsend’s hand, bidding him be of courage--and found himself detained as a friend in need. By and by, when the anxiety was over and the Bells ceased coming often in and out, the Townsends began to summon them. Mr. Townsend discovered the shrewd wisdom and genial philosophy of Joseph Bell to be of value, and often went to sit with him in the little front room, where his eyes noted with approval the rows of books. He discovered that Armstrongs’s head man knew more that lay between the covers of those books than did Harrison Townsend himself. As for Mrs. Townsend and Mrs. Bell, while they were too different in temperament and taste to get far into each other’s lives, they found enough in common to bring them together rather oftener than could naturally have been expected. There was a quiet poise about Mrs. Bell which the other woman, accomplished woman of the world though she was, could only study in despair of ever being able to attain. But she found a rest and refreshment in her neighbour’s society which none of her more fashionable friends could give her, and she sent often for Mrs. Bell to keep her company. "Olive’s taken one big step in advance," Peter said to his mother, one day in early summer. "She has begun to write regularly to Forrest." "I’m very glad," said Mrs. Bell. "Does he answer her letters?" "He does--only too glad to, I should say. She’s shown me some of his letters. There ’s a homesick grunt to them, that’s sure. Life in the army, and particularly life in the Philippines, is n’t unmitigated bliss, and he’s finding it out. He does n’t exactly squeal, but you can see how it is with him." "It will do Olive good to take up such a sisterly duty. Was it your suggestion?" asked Mrs. Bell.