Occasionally my father will be carried away by that beautiful credulity and enthusiasm which belong to the idealist nature, but my mother’s common-sense view of the case will, after some discussion, invariably prove to be the true one. If this result in any disappointment concerning the character of a friend, or the gratitude of a _protégé_, my father will console himself with the reflection that there must always be exceptions, and he will continue to believe in universal goodness and the Providence that watches over it. But my mother will become shrewder in the future, and so her common-sense will act as a brake upon my father’s idealism. Not that she is matter offact, beyond realising the fact that the world is made to live in, as well as dream in, and that living is an obligation, whilst dreaming is a luxury. With her the _desiderata_ of life have always been peace and quiet; and her ideal of pleasure is to live in a cottage in the country, with a rose-covered porch, and a garden in which every imaginable flower, fruit, or vegetable may be cultivated, in which her grandchildren may have ample scope to play and enjoy themselves, and her husband and children may also find joy and comfort. She is never so happy as when in the country, where, freed from the cares of housekeeping, she is able to ramble about with a little grandson or granddaughter for companion, and gather ferns, or tend flowers, or feed birds. These simple pleasures are absolute delights to her; there is no humbug about them, no chance of their disturbing the calm with troublous argument. How my memory goes back to those days of childhood, when we would all go to the seaside or to some country place in the summer months, and my mother would speedily become the beloved of the country folk by reason of her simple love of Nature, as well as by her sympathetic interest in their lives of toil, or her skill in suggesting remedies for the rheumatic aged or the ailing young. Wherever my mother has been she has always carried love and gratitude with her. And if this be so among strangers, what must it be with us who have known her love all our lives? Ah, we, her children, have indeed a store of gratitude, which it is the highest, most blessed privilege to feel. It is on a man’s birthday that he pauses to think of all this; to calculate the amount of love that is his, and the amount of love and gratitude that he gives in return, and when he can include a living mother’s love in the balance, he is blessed indeed. That is why I feel so happy to-day; my mother greets me, and you know that she is the sweetest, the—well, she is my mother, God bless her! _THE SOCIALLY AMBITIOUS WOMAN_