I wish I had such friends," I exclaimed, with sudden longing. "You and
the Mill Road folk are the only ones I have on this side the ocean, and
the most I care much for on the other already think in another language
from mine."

"Yours will not be a friendless life, I feel certain. I see elements in
your impulsive nature that must attract those who love the true and
unselfish."

"Oh, Mrs. Flaxman, what a delicious compliment to give me, just when I
was most discouraged about myself! Mr. Winthrop finds me such a nuisance,
and all your pretty and elegant lady friends I know care so little for me
that I can't but believe that I am a poor specimen, although you speak so
kindly."

"You will be wise to learn the art of not thinking much about your
merits. I find these the happiest lives who live most outside of self;
and they are the most helpful to others."

"But we have mainly to do with ourselves. How can we help wondering if
our particular barque on the voyage of life is to be a success or not?"

"It lies with ourselves whether it is or no."

"But persons like Mrs. Larkum and the Blakes, how can they have a
successful voyage, when they are so poor and lowly?"

"You must get the thought out of your mind that being poor and humble
makes any difference in God's sight. When Christ visited our planet his
position was as lowly as the Blakes; his purse as empty as the widow
Larkum's. We are such slow creatures to learn that character itself is
the only greatness in God's sight. Our ancestry and rent roll are the
small dust of the balance with Him."

"But Mr. Winthrop thinks most of those things--the ancestry and wealth."

"We must not sit in judgment on any one's thoughts, and we must not take
any man's gauge of character in the abstract as the correct one; only
take the word of God."

I went out into the sunshine to think over Mrs. Flaxman's little lecture;
a good deal comforted with the reflection that Mrs. Blake might have more
weight in the balances of Heaven than I had thought. The garden was
looking very shabby--its splendid midsummer glory had only a few flowers
left to show what had been there, and these only the thick-petaled,
substantial blossoms as free from perfume as the products of the
vegetable garden. I grew melancholy. A premonition of my own sure coming
autumn season, towards the end of life, was forecasting its cold shadow
over the intervening years which made the November sunshine grow dim; and
I g