minute; she had a little struggle with
herself; a little fight with that in her heart which made itself
manifest to her in a single quick leap of its pulses.

Was she glad? Glad that Marion Kent was living out, perversely, this
poor side of her--making a mistake? Losing, perhaps, so much?

"Marion has something better in her than that," she made herself
say, when she replied. "Perhaps it will come out again, some day."

"I think she has. Perhaps it will. You have always been good and
generous to her, Ray."

What did he say that for? Why did he make it impossible for her to
let it go so?

"Don't!" she exclaimed. "I am not generous to her this minute! I
couldn't help, when you said it, being satisfied--that you should
see. I don't know whether it is mean or true in me, that I always do
want people to see the truth."

She covered it up with that last sentence. The first left by
itself, might have shown him more. It was certainly so; that there
was a little severity in Ray Ingraham, growing out of her clear
perception and her very honesty. When she could see a thing, it
seemed as if everybody ought to see it; if they did not, as if she
ought to show them, that they might fairly understand. A half
understanding made her restless, even though the other half were
less kind and comfortable.

"You show the truth of yourself, too," said Frank. "And that is
grand, at any rate."

"You need not praise me," said Ray, almost coldly. "It is impossible
to be _quite_ true, I think. The nearer you try to come to it, the
more you can't"--and then she stopped.

"How many changes there have been among us!" she began again,
suddenly, at quite a different point, "All through the village there
have been things happening, in this last year. Nobody is at all as
they were a year ago. And another year"--

"Will tell another year's story," said Frank Sunderline. "Don't you
like to think of that sometimes? That the story isn't done, ever?
That there is always more to tell, on and on? And that means more to
_do_. We are all making a piece of it. If we stayed right still, you
see,--why, the Lord might as well shut up the book!"

He was full of life, this young man, and full of the delight of
living. There was something in his calling that made him rejoice in
a confident strength. He was born to handle tools; hammer and chisel
were as parts of him. He builded; he believed in building; in
something coming of every stroke. Real work dispose