t
people thinking life is just for fun."

Harry, like other young men, hated to be lectured, but from his aunt he
never took anything amiss. He admired her for her brilliant qualities,
and loved her with a love near to worship.

"I say, auntie," he said, with a little uncertain laugh, "it's like
going to church to hear you, only it's a deal more pleasant."

"But, Harry, am I not right?" she replied, earnestly. "Do you think that
you will get the best out of your life by just having fun? Oh, do you
know when I went with Kate to the Institute the other night and saw
those boys my heart ached. I thought of my own boys, and--" The voice
ceased in a pathetic little catch, the sensitive lips trembled, the
beautiful gray-brown eyes filled with sudden tears. For a few moments
there was silence; then, with a wavering smile, and a gentle, apologetic
air, she said: "But I must not make Harry think he is in church."

"Dear Aunt Murray," cried Harry, "do lecture me. I'd enjoy it, and you
can't make it too strong. You are just an angel." He left his seat, and
going over to her chair, knelt down and put his arms about her.

"Don't you all wish she was your aunt?" he said, kissing her.

"She IS mine," cried Kate, smiling at her through shining tears.

"She's more," said Ranald, and his voice was husky with emotion.

But with the bright, joyous little laugh Ranald knew so well, she
smoothed back Harry's hair, and kissing him on the forehead, said: "I am
sure you will do good work some day. But I shall be quite spoiled here;
I must really get home."

As Ranald left the Raymond house he knew well what he should say to Mr.
St. Clair next morning. He wondered at himself that he had ever been in
doubt. He had been for an hour in another world where the atmosphere was
pure and the light clear. Never till that night had he realized the
full value of that life of patient self-sacrifice, so unconscious of its
heroism. He understood then, as never before, the mysterious influence
of that gentle, sweet-faced lady over every one who came to know her,
from the simple, uncultured girls of the Indian Lands to the young men
about town of Harry's type. Hers was the power of one who sees with open
eyes the unseen, and who loves to the forgetting of self those for whom
the Infinite love poured Itself out in death.

"Going home, Harry?" inquired Ranald.

"Yes, right home; don't want to go anywhere else to-night. I say, old
chap, you're a better