from the mother who was little more than a dim memory.

Waitstill disdained any vague, dreary, colorless theory of life
and its meaning. She had joined the church at fifteen, more or
less because other girls did and the parson had persuaded her;
but out of her hard life she had somehow framed a courageous
philosophy that kept her erect and uncrushed, no matter how great
her difficulties. She had no idea of bringing a poor, weak,
draggled soul to her Maker at the last day, saying "Here is all I
have managed to save out of what you gave me!" That would be
something, she allowed, immeasurably something; but pitiful
compared with what she might do if she could keep a brave,
vigorous spirit and march to the last tribunal strengthened by
battles, struggles, defeats, victories; by the defense of weaker
human creatures, above all, warmed and vitalized by the pouring
out and gathering in of love.

Patty slept sweetly on the other side of the partition, the
contemplation of her twopenny triumphs bringing a smile to her
childish lips: but even so a good heart was there (still perhaps
in the process of making), a quick wit, ready sympathy, natural
charm; plenty, indeed, for the stronger sister to cherish,
protect, and hold precious, as she did, with all her mind and
soul.

There had always been a passionate loyalty in Waitstill's
affection, wherever it had been bestowed. Uncle Bart delighted in
telling an instance of it that occurred when she was a child of
five. Maine had just separated amicably from her mother,
Massachusetts, and become an independent state. It was in the