sketches, as you know.  Sometimes I laugh at their whimsical conception, before ever I put pencil to paper.  Lots of caricatures I make secretly, laughing over and then destroying them for fear they might be seen and hurt the feelings of their innocent subjects.  Why, Mary Louise, I drew your doleful face only yesterday, and it was so funny I shrieked with glee.  You heard me and looked over at me with a smile that made the caricature lie, so I promptly tore it up.  It had served its purpose, you see.”

So many of these quaint notions filled the head of the crippled girl that Mary Louise’s wondering interest in her never flagged.  It was easy to understand why Mrs. Conant had declared that Irene was the joy and life of the household, for it was impossible to remain morbid or blue in her presence.

For this reason, as well as through the warm and sincere affection inspired by Irene, Mary Louise came by degrees to confide to her the entire story of the mystery that surrounded her grandfather and influenced the lives of her mother and herself.  Of her personal anxieties and fears she told her new friend far more than she had ever confessed to anyone else and her disclosures were met by ready sympathy.

“Phoo!” cried Irene.  “This isn’t a real trouble; it will pass away.  Everything passes away in time, Mary Louise, for life is a succession of changes—­one thing after another.  Remember the quotation:  ’Whate’er may be thy fate to-day, remember—­this will pass away.’  I love that little saying and it has comforted me and given me courage many a time.”

“Life will also pass away,” observed Mary Louise pessimistically.

“To be sure.  Isn’t that a glad prospect?  To pass to a new life, to new adventures, planned for us by the wisdom of God, is the most glorious promise we mortals possess.  In good time that joy will be ours, but now we must make the most of our present blessings.  I take it, Mary Louise, that there is a purpose in everything—­a Divine Purpose, you know—­and that those who most patiently accept their trials will have the better future recompense.  What’s a twisted ankle or a shriveled leg to do with happiness?  Or even a persecuted grandfather?  We’re made of better stuff, you and I, than to cry at such babyish bumps.  My! what a lot of things we both have to be thankful for.”

Somehow these conversations cheered Mary Louise considerably and her face soon lost its drawn, worried look and became almost as placid as in the days when she had Gran’pa Jim beside her and suspected no approaching calamity.  Gran’pa Jim would surely have loved Irene, had he known her, because their ideas of life and duty were so similar.

As it was now less than a month to the long summer vacation, Mary Louise did not enter the Dorfield High School but studied a little at home, so as not to get “rusty,” and passed most of her days in the society of Irene Macfarlane.  It was a week or so after her arrival that Peter Conant said to her one evening: