fast hold on her early standards of refinement and culture, and
made them a part of her family's daily living.

Pink felt the difference, even in the breakfast. It was no better than
the one he would have had at home, but at home there would have been no
interesting conversation, no glowing bit of color in the centre of the
table like this bowl of autumn leaves and berries. At home there would
have been no attempt at any pleasing effect in the dainty serving of
courses. There ham was ham and eggs were eggs, and it made no difference
how they were slapped on to the table, so long as they were well cooked.
There, meal-time was merely a time to satisfy one's appetite as quickly
as possible and hurry away from the table as soon as the food was
devoured. Here, the day seemed to take its key-note from the illuminated
text of a calendar hanging beside the fireplace. It was a part of _The
Salutation of the Dawn_ from the Sanskrit:

"For yesterday is but a dream,
And to-morrow is only a vision;
But to-day well-lived, makes
Every yesterday a dream of happiness
And every to-morrow a vision of hope.
_Look well, therefore, to this day!_
_Such is the Salutation of the Dawn._"

The Ware breakfast-table seemed to be the place where they all gathered
to get a good start for the day. It was Mrs. Ware who gave it, and gave
it unconsciously, not so much by what she said, as what she was. One
felt her hopefulness, her serenity of soul, as one feels the cheer of a
warm hearthstone.

Pink could not recall one word she had said to stimulate his ambition,
but when he rode away on one horse, leading the other, he was trying to
adjust himself to a new set of standards. He felt that there was
something to live for besides taking in dimes over the counter of a
country store. One thing happened at breakfast which made him glow with
pleasure whenever he thought of it. It was the quick look of approval
which Mary flashed him when he answered one of her sallies by a
quotation about green spectacles.

"Oh, you know the old Vicar too!" she exclaimed, as if claiming mutual
acquaintance with a real friend. "Don't you love him?"

Pink was glad that some interruption spared him the necessity of an
enthusiastic assent. He had not been specially thrilled by the book, so
far as he had read, but he attacked it manfully again that night,
feeling that there must be more in it than he had wit