I am but a raindrop in a
shower, I will be at least a perfect drop. If but a leaf in a whole
June, I will be a perfect leaf. This is the beginning of all Gospels,
that the kingdom of heaven is at hand just where we are.'"

"Oh!" cried Evadne, drawing a long breath, "that is beautiful! I feel as
if I had been lifted up until I touched the sky."

"Marthe," exclaimed Mr. Everidge reproachfully, suddenly appearing in
the doorway with a sock drawn over each arm, "it is incomprehensible to
me you do not remember that my physical organism and darns have
absolutely no affinity."

Mrs. Everidge laughed brightly. "If you will make holes, Horace, I must
make darns," she said.

"Not a natural sequence at all!" he retorted testily. "When the wear and
tear of time becomes visible in my underwear it must be relegated to
Reuben."

"But Reuben's affinity for patches may be no stronger than your own,
Uncle Horace," said Evadne mischievously.

Mr. Everidge waved his sock-capped hands with a gesture of disdain.
"The lower orders, my dear Evadne, are incapable of those delicate
perceptions which constitute the mental atmosphere of those of finer
mould. The delft does not feel the blow which would shiver the porcelain
into atoms, and Reuben's epidermis is, I imagine, of such a horny
consistency that he would walk in oblivious unconcern upon these
elevations of needlework which are as a ploughshare to my sensitive
nerves. It is the penalty one has to pay for being of finer clay than
the common herd of men."

Evadne looked at Mrs. Everidge. A deep flush of shame had dyed her
cheeks and her lips were quivering.

"Oh, Horace," she cried, "Reuben is such a faithful boy!"

"My dear," said her husband airily, "I make no aspersions against his
moral character, but he certainly cannot be classed among the
velvet-skinned aristocracy. By the way, I wish you would see in future
that my undergarments are of a silken texture. My flesh rebels at
anything approaching to harshness," and then he went complacently back
to his library to weave and fashion the graceful phrases which flowed
from his facile pen.

"Why should he go clothed in silk and you in cotton!" cried Evadne,
jealous for the rights of her friend.

Mrs. Everidge's eyes came back from one of their long journeys, "Oh, I
have learned the luxury of doing without," she said lightly.

Evadne threw her arms around her impulsively. "But why, oh, Aunt Marthe,
why should not Uncle Horace