tly. "And I am so
happy about you, Ethel, your mother will be so pleased."

It seemed to Mary afterwards, when she left Ethel and went by express to
York, where she took a slow train to the little station on the moors
near her sister's home, that her heart was as light and happy as if she
had received a great gift instead of surrendering an advantage. Truly
it is more blessed to give than to receive, for there is no joy so pure
as "the joy of doing kindnesse."

But on her arrival at the house which had been her home since her
parents died, she found herself being severely blamed for what she had
done.

In vain Mary reminded her sister that she was not exactly poor, and
certainly not dependent upon her. Their father had left a very moderate
income to both his daughters, Hetty the elder, who had married Dr.
Croft, a country practitioner, and Mary, who, as a sensible modern young
woman, determined to have a vocation, and go in for the up-to-date work
of teaching physical culture.

Finding she could make no impression upon her sister, Mrs. Croft
privately exhorted her husband to speak to Mary about the disputed
point.

That evening, therefore, after dinner, as they sat round the fire
chatting, the doctor remarked: "But you know, Mary, it won't do to step
aside for others to get before you in the battle of life. You owe a duty
to yourself and--and your friends."

"I am quite aware of that," Mary replied, "but this was such an
exceptional case. Ethel Forrest is so poor, and----"

[Sidenote: "Each for Himself!"]

"Yes, yes. But, my dear girl, it is each for himself in this world."

"Is it?" Mary asked, and again there was a wistful, far-away look in her
blue eyes. With an effort, she pulled herself together, and went on
softly: "Shall I tell you what I saw as I returned home across the moor
from the station? The day was nearly over, and the clouds were gathering
overhead. The wind was rising and falling as it swept across the
moorland. The rich purple of the heather had gone, and was succeeded by
dull brown--sometimes almost grey--each little floret of the ling, as
Ruskin said, folding itself into a cross as it was dying. Poor little
purply-pink petals! They had had their day, they had had their fill of
sunshine, they had been breathed on by the soft breezes of a genial
summer, and now all the brightness for them was over; they folded their
petals, becoming just like a cross as they silently died away. You see,"
sh