"So it does me," I returned. "I love the children exactly as if they were my own." "That," she said, "is impossible." "I certainly do," I persisted. Mother would not dispute with me, though I wished she would. "A mother," she went on, "receives her children one at a time, and gradually adjusts herself to gradually increasing burdens. But you take a whole houseful upon you at once, and I am sure it is too much for you. You do not look or act like yourself." "It isn't the children," I said. "What is it, then?" "Why, it's nothing," I said, pettishly. "I must say, dear," said mother, not noticing my manner, "that your wonderful devotion to the children, aside from its effect on your health and temper, has given me great delight." "I don't see why," I said. "Very few girls of your age would give up their whole time as you do to such work." "That is because very few girls are as fond of children as I am. There is no virtue in doing exactly what one likes best to do." "There, go away, you contrary child," said mother, laughing. "If you won't be praised, you won't." So I came up here and moped a little. I don't see what ails me. But there is an under-current of peace that is not entirely disturbed by any outside event. In spite of my follies and my shortcomings, I do believe that God loves and pities me, and will yet perfect that which concerneth me. It is a great mystery. But so is everything. Dr. Elliott to Mrs. Crofton: And now, my dear friend, having issued my usual bulletin of health, you may feel quite at ease about your dear children, and I come to a point in your letter which I would gladly pass over in silence. But this would be but a poor return for the interest you express in my affairs. Both ladies are devoted to your little flock, and Miss Mortimer seems not to have a thought but for them. The high opinion I formed of her at the outset is more than justified by all I see of her daily, household life. I know what her faults are, for she seems to take delight in revealing them. But I also know her rare virtues, and what a wealth of affection she has to bestow on the man who is so happy as to win her heart. But I shall never be that man. Her growing aversion to me makes me dread a summons to your house, and I have hardly manliness enough to conceal the pain this gives me. I entreat you, therefore, never again to press this subject upon me. After all, I would not, if I could, dispense with the ministry of disappointment and unrest. Mrs. Crofton, in reply: . . . . So she hates you, does she? I am charmed to hear it. Indifference would be an alarming symptom, but good, cordial hatred, or what looks like it, is a most hopeful sign. The next chance you get to see her alone, assure her that you never shall repeat your first offence. If nothing comes of it I am not a woman, and never was one; nor is she.