“Is that fair?  How do you know, Mr. Wharne?” The sudden, impetuous questions come from Leslie Goldthwaite.

“I see—­what I see.”

“The whole?” said Leslie, more restrainedly.  She remembered her respect for age and office.  Yet she felt sorely tempted, shy, proud girl as she was, to take up cudgels for her friends, at least.  Mr. Wharne liked her the better for that.

“They turn away from this, with five words,—­the toll of custom,—­or half a look, when the wind is north; and they go in to what you saw last night.”

“After all, isn’t it just enjoyment, either way?  Mayn’t one be as selfish as the other?  People were kind, and bright, and pleasant with each other last night.  Is that a bad thing?”

“No, little girl, it is not.”  And Marmaduke Wharne came nearer to Leslie, and looked at her with a gentle look that was wonderfully beautiful upon his stern gray face.  “Only, I would have a kindness that should go deep,—­coming from a depth.  There are two things for live men and women to do:  to receive, from God; and to give out, to their fellows.  One cannot be done without the other.  No fruit, without the drinking of the sunshine.  No true tasting of the sunshine that is not gathering itself toward the ripening of fruit.”

Here it was again; more teaching to the self-same point,—­as we always do get it, with a seeming strangeness, whether it be for mind only, or for soul.  You never heard of a new name, or fact in history, that did not come out again presently in some fresh or further mention or allusion.  It is the tender training of Him before whom our life is of so great value.

At this moment, the gong sounded again; saleratus cakes and maple molasses were ready, and they all went in.

Leslie saw Imogen Thoresby change seats with her mother, because the draught from the door was less in her place; and take the pale top cake from the plate, leaving a brown one for the mother.  Everybody likes brown cakes best; and it was very unbecoming to sit opposite a great, unshaded window, to say nothing of the draught.  Surely a little blossom peeped out here from under the leaf.  Leslie thought Imogen Thoresby might be forgiven for having done her curls so elaborately, and put on such an elegant wrapper; even for having ventured only a half-look out at the balcony door, when she found the wind was north.  The parable was already teaching her both ways.

I do not mean to preach upon every page.  I have begun by trying to tell you how a great influencing thought was given into Leslie Goldthwaite’s life, and began to unravel for her perplexing questions that had troubled her,—­questions that come, I think, to many a young girl just entering upon the world, as they came to her; how, in the simple history of her summer among the mountains, a great deal solved itself and grew clear.  I would like to succeed in making you divine this, as you follow out the simple history itself.