nce without a happy word or a bright thought to carry away.
And happiness makes happiness. I myself am happier than I should have
been had I sat down and bemoaned my fate."

"'T is easy enough to be pleasant,
When life flows along like a song;
But the man worth while is the one who will smile
When everything goes dead wrong;
For the test of the heart is trouble,
And it always comes with the years;
And the smile that is worth the praise of the earth
Is the smile that comes through tears."

A PLEASURE BOOK.

"She is an aged woman, but her face is serene and peaceful, though
trouble has not passed her by. She seems utterly above the little
worries and vexations which torment the average woman and leave lines of
care. The Fretful Woman asked her one day the secret of her happiness;
and the beautiful old face shone with joy.

"'My dear,' she said, 'I keep a Pleasure Book.'

"'A what?'

"'A Pleasure Book. Long ago I learned that there is no day so dark and
gloomy that it does not contain some ray of light, and I have made it
one business of my life to write down the little things which mean so
much to a woman. I have a book marked for every day of every year since
I left school. It is but a little thing: the new gown, the chat with a
friend, the thoughtfulness of my husband, a flower, a book, a walk in
the field, a letter, a concert, or a drive; but it all goes into my
Pleasure Book, and, when I am inclined to fret, I read a few pages to
see what a happy, blessed woman I am. You may see my treasures if you
will.'

"Slowly the peevish, discontented woman turned over the book her friend
brought her, reading a little here and there. One day's entries ran
thus: 'Had a pleasant letter from mother. Saw a beautiful lily in a
window. Found the pin I thought I had lost. Saw such a bright, happy
girl on the street. Husband brought some roses in the evening.'

"Bits of verse and lines from her daily reading have gone into the
Pleasure Book of this world-wise woman, until its pages are a storehouse
of truth and beauty.[1]

"'Have you found a pleasure for every day?' the Fretful Woman asked.

"'For every day,' the low voice answered; 'I had to make my theory come
true, you know.'"

The Fretful Woman ought to have stopped there, but did not; and she
found that page where it was written--"He died with his hand in mine,
and my name upon his lips." Below were the