proud curve of her nostrils, the clear well-opened eye with its deep
fringe of lashes, the earnest mouth, all these came from the mother who
was little more than a dim memory.

Waitstill disdained any vague, dreary, colorless theory of life and
its meaning. She had joined the church at fifteen, more or less because
other girls did and the parson had persuaded her; but out of her hard
life she had somehow framed a courageous philosophy that kept her erect
and uncrushed, no matter how great her difficulties. She had no idea
of bringing a poor, weak, draggled soul to her Maker at the last day,
saying "Here is all I have managed to save out of what you gave me!"
That would be something, she allowed, immeasurably something; but
pitiful compared with what she might do if she could keep a brave,
vigorous spirit and march to the last tribunal strengthened by battles,
struggles, defeats, victories; by the defense of weaker human creatures,
above all, warmed and vitalized by the pouring out and gathering in of
love.

Patty slept sweetly on the other side of the partition, the
contemplation of her twopenny triumphs bringing a smile to her childish
lips: but even so a good heart was there (still perhaps in the process
of making), a quick wit, ready sympathy, natural charm; plenty, indeed,
for the stronger sister to cherish, protect, and hold precious, as she
did, with all her mind and soul.

There had always been a passionate loyalty in Waitstill's affection,
wherever it had been bestowed. Uncle Bart delighted in telling an
instance of it that occurred when she was a child of five. Maine had
just separated amicably from her mother, Massachusetts, and become an
independent state. It was in the middle of March, but there was no snow
on the ground and the village boys had built a bonfire on a plot of
land near Uncle Bart's joiner's shop. There was a large gathering in
celebration of the historic event and Waitstill crept down the hill with
her homemade rag doll in her arms. She stood on the outskirts of the
crowd, a silent, absorbed little figure clad in a shabby woollen coat,
with a blue knit hood framing her rosy face. Deborah, her beloved, her
only doll, was tightly clasped in her arms, for Debby, like her parent,
had few pleasures and must not be denied so great a one as this.
Suddenly, one of the thoughtless young scamps in the group, wishing to
create a new sensation and add to the general excitement, caught the
doll from t