than miles of tracts. I agree with Paul that livin' epistles make the
best readin' an' it don't seem fittin' that she should be shut up in
this little place where only a few of us have the right kind of
spectacles to see her through. Most of the folks just allow it's Mis'
Everidge's way, and would as soon think of tryin' to imitate her as a
tadpole would a star."

"But we are to imitate Christ," said Evadne.

"'Course, child! But it's dredful comfortin' to have a human life in
front of us to show us that is possible. Lots of times when life looks
like a long seam an' the sewin' pricks my fingers, a new light falls on
this picture, and I sez to myself, 'Penel,' says I, 'look at Marthe
Everidge. The Lord has made you both out of the same material. There
ain't no reason why she should be always gettin' nearer heaven and you
goin' back to earth. She has difficulties and worriments, same as you
have, but if she can make every trial into a new rung for the ladder on
which she is mountin' up to God, there ain't no reason why you should
make a gravestone out of yours to bury yourself under; and so I start
on with a new courage, an' when we get to the end of the journey, I'll
not be the only one who'll have to thank Marthe Everidge for showin' the
way."

Evadne's eyes shone. "You make me feel," she cried, "as if I would
rather live a beautiful life than do the most magnificent thing in the
world!"

"That's a safe feelin' to tie to," said Penelope with an approving
smile; "for character is the only thing we've got to carry with us when
we go."

"Well," she continued, "I must be goin'. I did think I'd be forehanded
in callin', but mother's been dredful wakeful lately, and when daylight
comes, it don't seem as if I had the ambition of a snail. She don't like
to be left alone for a minit, mother don't, so it's a bit of a puzzle to
keep up with society."

She laughed cheerily as she held out her hand. "Well, I'm dredful
pleased to have met you. I'll be more than glad to have you come in
whenever you're down our way."

Evadne watched her as she walked briskly along the road. "She is not
Aunt Marthe," she said slowly; "I suppose Louis would call it a case of
the solanum and the potato blossom, but she is one of the Lord's plants
all the same."

"Aunt Marthe, what _is_ culture?" she asked suddenly, as later in the
afternoon Mrs. Everidge sat beside her hammock. "Is Louis right? Is it
just the veneer of education and travel