d--I don't
believe it was!" There was triumphant conviction in Jerry's voice, born
of the grateful little smile Isobel flashed to her.

Gyp turned disgustedly on her heel. From the doorway where Uncle Johnny
had been taking in the little scene came a chuckle. As Gyp walked
haughtily out of the room he came forward and laid his hand on Jerry's
shoulder.

"Right-o, Jerry-girl. There's more than one kind of a victory, isn't
there? Now run along and make peace with Miss Gypsy and let me get
acquainted with my Bonnie--four whole days since I've seen you." There
was a suspicious crackling of tissue-paper in his pocket. One hand
slowly drew forth a small, blue velvet box which he laid in Isobel's
fingers.

"Oh, Uncle Johnny!" For, within, lay a dainty bracelet set with small
turquoise. Quite unexpectedly Isobel's eyes filled with tears.

"What is it, kitten?"

"It's lovely only--only--everybody's too good to me for--I
guess--I'm--what Gyp said I was!"

There was everything in Isobel's past experience to warrant her
expecting that Uncle Johnny would vehemently protest the truth of her
outburst and assure her that no one could do enough for her. She
_wanted_ him to do so. But, alas, she read in his face that he, too,
thought what Gyp had said was very true.

"Isobel, dear--I think I ought to try and make you see something--for
your own good. Have you ever pictured the fight that's going on in the
human blood all the time--the tiny warriors struggling constantly, one
kind to kill and the other to keep alive? The same sort of fight's going
on in our natures, too. Every one of us is born with a whole lot of good
things; they're our heritage and it's our own fault when we don't keep
'em. I don't mean outward things, dear--like your golden hair and those
sky-blue eyes of yours--I mean the inside things, the things that grow
and make our lives. But they've got to fight to live. If vanity and
selfishness get the upper hand--where do they lead you? Well," he
laughed, "I can't make you understand any more clearly what I mean than
just to point to poor old Aunt Maria!"

Isobel had turned her face away; he could not see how she was taking his
clumsy little lecture.

"_She's_ just a pathetic waste of God's good clay--moulded once as He
wants His children, but what has she done? She's lived--no one knows how
many years--only to feed her own body and glorify her own nest; she's
grown _in_ instead of _out_; she's never given an hon