,
and every season different from the last, and the sunsets and the dawn,
and the wonderful changing clouds? It is just a gorgeous feast to
delight our eyes of colour; and all the animals are so cheerful, while
they are young, at least--they skip and dance by instinct, so surely we
must be meant to be happy too!"

"I don't know," Ruth objected slowly. "Animals have not souls and
responsibilities, but we have, and that keeps us serious. The average
man and woman is not happy, if you can judge by appearances. I remember
reading about a man who walked about the streets of London all day long
to see how many people he should meet with a smile on their faces. I
forget how many there were--half a dozen, perhaps--terribly few!"

"Well, there would have been thousands, if people were half as grateful
as they should be. Do you know, I sometimes think that what must grieve
God more than almost anything else is that so many people refuse to be
happy, in spite of all He can do, and go on forgetting their blessings,
and making themselves miserable about little bits of silly worries and
bothers day after day. Imagine if you had a child who was always
grizzling, in spite of all your love and care! How would you feel?"

"But a child is a child. We may be meant to be serious."

"You can be serious without being glum. You can be happy without being
thoughtless."

"Ah, Mollie dear," cried Ruth, turning to her sister and holding out her
hand with a rush of tenderness--"ah, Mollie dear, happiness is a gift,
which you possess and I do not! I am sad even on this lovely day, in
this lovely place. It may be wrong, but I can't help it, yet I don't
think I am ungrateful."

"You are happy enough as a rule; but you do `sup sorrow with a spoon'
when you get the chance, old dear! An hour ago, for instance, the sky
seemed remarkably bright, and I could make a shrewd guess at the reason
of this cloud; but, if I did, I expect you would snap off my head for my
pains!"

"Yes, I should--I certainly should; so be careful what you say!" cried
Ruth hastily. Then, as if eager to change the subject--"Here is James
coming out with the afternoon letters. I hope there is one from home.
It seems ages since we heard!"

"Trix! For me. How lovely! I'll read it aloud!" cried Mollie, tearing
open the envelope, and unfolding several odd sheets torn out of an
exercise-book and covered with large, untidy handwriting. Trix's
characteristic epist