the girl’s future, but her own, appeared to her barren of interest, robbed even of hope.  The spirit that combats, she saw, had never been hers—­nor had the courage that prevails.  For this reason fate had been hard to her—­because she had never yielded to pressure—­because she had stepped by habit rather than choice into the vacant place.  She was a good woman—­her heart assured her of this—­she had done her duty no matter what it cost her—­and she had possessed, moreover, a fund of common sense which had aided her not a little in doing it.  It was this common sense that told her now that facts were, after all, more important than dreams—­that the putting up of pickles was a more useful work in the world than the regretting of possibilities—­that the sordid realities were not less closely woven into the structure of existence than were the romantic illusions.  She told herself these things, yet in spite of her words she saw her future stretching away, like her past, amid a multitude of small duties for which she had neither inclination nor talent.  One thing after another, all just alike, day after day, month after month, year after year.  Nothing ahead of her, and, looking back, nothing behind her that she would care to stop and remember.  “That’s life,” she said softly to herself and went on her way, while Molly, glancing back, beheld her only as a blot on the sunshine.

“Poor Miss Kesiah,” the girl thought before she forgot her.  “I wonder if she’s ever really lived?”

Then the wonder fled from her mind, for, as a shadow fell over her path, she looked up, startled, into the eyes of Gay, who had burst suddenly out of the willows.  His face was flushed and he appeared a trifle annoyed.  As he stopped before her, he cut sharply at the weeds with a small whip he carried.

“Don’t, please,” she said; “I hate to see people cut off the heads of innocent things.”

“It is rather beastly,” her returned, his face clearing.  “Did you come out to find me, cousin?”

“Why should I, Mr. Jonathan?”

“You don’t soften the blow—­but why ’Mr. Jonathan’?”

“I thought it was your name.”

“It’s not my name to you—­I say, Molly, do you mind my telling you that you’re a brick?”

“Oh, no, not if you feel like it.”

“I do feel like it tremendously.”

“Then I don’t mind in the least,” and to prove it she smiled radiantly into his face.  Her smile was the one really beautiful thing about Molly, but as far as her immediate purpose went it served her as successfully as a host.

“By George, I like your devotion to the old chap!” he exclaimed.  “I hope a girl will stick by me as squarely when I am beginning to totter.”

“Have you ever been as good to one?” she asked quite seriously, and wondered why he laughed.

“Well, I doubt if I ever have, but I’d like very much to begin.”

“You’re not a grandfather, Mr. Jonathan.”