Mr. Maynard smiled at this very human sentiment, and said:

"No, Midget, dear, it doesn't, in one way; but in another way it does.
You mustn't think that I don't appreciate fully your sorrow at losing
Gladys. But troubles come into every life, and though this is your first,
I cannot hope it will be your last. So, if you are to have more of them,
you must begin to learn to bear them rightly, and so make them help your
character-growth and not hinder it."

"But, Father, you see Gladys helps my character a lot. She loves to go to
school, and I hate it. But if I go with her, and sit with her I don't
mind it so much. But without her,--oh how _can_ I go to school without
her?"

Again Marjorie wept as one who could not be comforted, and Mr. Maynard
realized it was truly a crisis in the little girl's life.

"Marjorie," he said, very tenderly, "it _is_ a hard blow, and I don't
wonder it is crushing you. Nor do I expect you to take a philosophical
view of it at present. But, my child, we'll look at it practically, at
least. Gladys _is_ going; nothing can change that fact. Now, for my sake,
as well as your own, I'm going to _ask_ you to be my own brave daughter,
and not disappoint me by showing a lack of cheerful courage to meet
misfortune."

"I don't want to be babyish, Father," said Midget, suddenly feeling
ashamed of herself.

"You're not babyish, dear; it's right and womanly to feel grief at losing
Gladys; but since it has to be, I want you to conquer that grief, and not