"You are generally right, Ruth, even where
I cannot follow you. I hope Ethel will be
home for dinner. I like my Sunday dinner
with both of you, and I may bring my mother
back with me."

Then he said "Good morning" with an intentional
cheerfulness, and Ruth was left
alone with her book. She gave a moment's
thought to the value of good example, and
then with a sigh of content let her eyes rest on
the words Ethel's presence had for awhile
silenced:

"I am filled with a sense of sweetness and
wonder that such, little things can make a
mortal so exceedingly rich. But I confess that
the chiefest of all my delights is still the
religious." (Theodore Parker.) She read the
words again, then closed her eyes and let the
honey of some sacred memory satisfy her soul.
And in those few minutes of reverie, Ruth
Bayard revealed the keynote of her being.
Wanderings from it, caused by the exigencies
and duties of life, frequently occurred; but
she quickly returned to its central and
controlling harmony; and her serenity and poise
were therefore as natural as was her niece's
joyousness and hope. Nor was her religious