“O, Kenneth!  I was the worst little atom in the whole crystal!  I only got into my place because everybody else did, and there was nothing else left for me to do.”

“You see I shall never believe that,” said Kenneth, quietly.  “There is no flaw in the crystal.  You were all polarized alike.  And besides, can’t I see daily just how your nature draws and points?”

“Well, never mind,” said Rose.  “Only some particles are natural magnets, I believe, and some get magnetized by contact.  Now that we have hit upon this metaphor, isn’t it funny that our little social experiment should have taken the shape of a horseshoe?”

“The most sociable, because the most magnetic, shape it could take.  You will see the power it will develop.  There’s a great deal in merely taking form according to fundamental principles.  Witness the getting round a fireside.  Isn’t that a horseshoe?  And could half as much sympathy be evolved from a straight line?”

“I believe in firesides,” said Rose.

“And in women who can organize and inform them,” said Kenneth.  “First, firesides; then neighborhoods; that is the way the world’s life works out; and women have their hands at the heart of it.  They can do so much more there than by making the laws!  When the life is right, the laws will make themselves, or be no longer needed.  They are such mere outside patchwork,—­makeshifts till a better time!”

“Wrong living must make wrong laws, whoever does the voting,” said Rosamond, sagely.

“False social standards make false commercial ones; inflated pretensions demand inflated currency; selfish, untrue domestic living eventuates in greedy speculations and business shams; and all in the intriguing for corrupt legislation, to help out partial interests.  It isn’t by multiplying the voting power, but by purifying it, that the end is to be reached.”

“That is so sententious, Kenneth, that I shall have to take it home and ravel it out gradually in my mind in little shreds.  In the mean while, dear, suppose we stop in the village, and get some little brown-ware cups for top-overs.  You never ate any of my top-overs?  Well, when you do, you’ll say that all the world ought to be brought up on top-overs.”

Rosamond was very particular about her little brown-ware cups.  They had to be real stone,—­brown outside, and gray-blue in; and they must be of a special size and depth.  When they were found, and done up in a long parcel, one within another, in stout paper, she carried it herself to the chaise, and would scarcely let Kenneth hold it while she got in; after which, she laid it carefully across her lap, instead of putting it behind upon the cushion.

’You see they were rather dear; but they are the only kind worth while.  Those little yellow things would soak and crack, and never look comfortable in the kitchen-closet.  I give you very fair warning, I shall always want the best of things but then I shall take very fierce and jealous care of them,—­like this.’