y roll waywardly on until they pass to mother earth
again, or are borne upward to the clouds. Sometimes they lie peacefully
at rest, or they ripple merrily like children at play, only to be rudely
awakened and lashed to angry fury in an aimless struggle with the winds.
Like a life they are merely the agents of some greater power, helplessly
following their destiny."

"I think you theorize too much, my dear," said Florence. "If you want
happiness, you must take life as it comes."

"Happiness," laughed Marion cynically. "Happiness is like the golden
bowl at the rainbow's base; no matter how desperately you chase after
it, it still glitters in the distant future."

"Possibly," replied Florence, "though I remember reading somewhere that
'the reason there is so little happiness in the world is because so few
people are engaged in producing it.' Perhaps that is why we are
unhappy."

"Do you know the formula for the production of this rarity?" sneered
Marion.

"No, but I suppose it has something to do with the time honored saying,
'be virtuous,' and so forth."

"Yes, I know; the kind of happiness that comes from the knowledge that
one is good," put in Marion. "It is a sort of self-satisfied,
touch-me-not happiness, with a better-than-you-are smirk about it."

"Can't one have a clear conscience without being a Pharisee?" asked
Florence.

"I don't know," sighed Marion. "It is all a question of temptation, I
suppose. Some people seem to be good from birth; they are never tempted,
and have no charity for those who are."

"I don't call such people good," replied Florence; "a St. Anthony
without a temptation would be a sorry picture of virtuous self-control."

Marion did not reply. For a moment she remained quietly thinking, as
though Florence's words had inspired her with an idea; finally she
spoke, in slowly chosen words: "Do you think what the Bible says about a
mental sin being as great as the outward act can be true?"

"I think it depends entirely upon circumstances," replied Florence.

Marion turned her eyes thoughtfully upon the floor, then, restlessly
twisting a cushion tassel between her fingers, she asked earnestly: "Do
you think a woman who is tempted and resists, yet feels the subtle
poison still in her heart, has sinned?"

Florence was silent a moment, as though weighing the question in her
mind. "I would not condemn such a woman," she finally said; "I would
pity her."

"What ought she to do?" asked Ma