path as if she had nothing else in the world to wish for. The nurse had
a part in the joy, for she lifted the baby out of the perambulator and
showed proudly how much he had grown.

It was a dear little scene, and I, a passer-by, had shared in it and felt
better for it. I think their content was no less because part of it had
enriched my life, for happiness, like mercy, is twice blessed; it blesses
those who are most intimately associated in it, and it blesses all those
who see it, hear it, feel it, touch it, or breathe the same atmosphere. A
laughing, crowing baby in a house, one cheerful woman singing about her
work, a boy whistling at the plough, a romance just suspected, with its
miracle of two hearts melting into one--the wind's always in the west
when you have any of these wonder-workers in your neighbourhood.

I have talks too, sometimes, with the old parson, who lives in a quaint
house with "_Parva Domus Magna Quies_" cut into the stone over the
doorway. He is not a preaching parson, but a retired one, almost the
nicest kind, I often think.

He has been married thirty years, he tells me; thirty years, spent in the
one little house with the bricks painted red and grey alternately, and
the scarlet holly-hocks growing under the windows. I am sure they have
been sweet, true, kind years, and that his heart must be a quiet,
peaceful place just like his house and garden.

"I was only eleven years old when I fell in love with my wife," he told
me as we sat on the seat under the lime-tree; he puffing cosily at his
pipe, I plaiting grasses for a hatband.

"It was just before Sunday-school. Her mother had dressed her all in