when rain had been falling all the morning to cool the high
roof, Mary Beck and Betty sat there together in great comfort and peace.
See for yourself Mary in the rocking-chair, and Betty in the
window-seat; they were deep in thought of girlish problems, and, as
usual, taking nearly opposite sides. They had been discussing their
plans for the future. Mary Beck had confessed that she wished to learn
to be a splendid singer and sing in a great church or even in public
concerts. She knew that she could, if she were only well taught; but
there was nobody to give her lessons in Tideshead, and her mother would
not hear of her going to Riverport twice a week.

"She says that I can keep up with my singing at home, and she wants me
to go into the choir, and I can't bear it. I hate to hear 'we can't
afford it,' and I am sure to, if I set my heart on anything. Mother says
that it will be time enough to learn to sing when I am through school.
Oh, dear me!" and poor Mary looked disappointed and fretful.

A disheartening picture of the present Becky on the concert-stage
flashed through Betty's usually hopeful mind. She felt a heartache, as
she thought of her friend's unfitness and inevitable disappointment.
Becky--plain, ungainly, honest Becky--felt it in her to do great things,
yet she hardly knew what great things were. Persons of Betty's age never
count upon having years of time in which to make themselves better.
Everything must be finally decided by the state of things at the moment.
Years of patient study were sure to develop the wonderful gift of
Becky's strong, sweet voice.

"Why don't you sing in the choir, Becky?" asked Betty suddenly. "It
would make the singing so much better. I should love to do it, if I
could, and it would help to make Sunday so pleasant for everybody, to
hear you sing. Poor Miss Fedge's voice sounds funny, doesn't it? Sing me
something now, Becky dear; sing 'Bonny Doon'!"

But Becky took no notice of the request. "What do you mean to be,
yourself?" she asked her companion, with great interest.

"You know that I can't sing or paint or do any of those things,"
answered Betty humbly. "I used to wish that I could write books when I
grew up, or at any rate help papa to write his. I am almost discouraged,
though papa says I must keep on trying to do the things I really wish to
do." And a bright flush covered Betty's eager face.

"Oh, Becky dear!" she said suddenly. "You have something that I envy you
mor