aid the other, gently. Then, after a little, she spoke
again:

"We all have trouble, deary--it's part of life; but I believe that we
all share equally in the joy of the world. Allowing for temperament,
I mean. Sorrows that would crush some are lightly borne by others, and
some have the gift of finding great happiness in little things.

"Then, too, we never have any more than we can bear--nothing that has
not been borne before, and bravely at that. There isn't a new sorrow in
the world--they're all old ones--but we can all find new happiness if we
look in the right way."

The voice had a full music, instinct with tenderness, and gradually
Ruth's troubled spirit was eased. "I don't know what's the matter with
me," she said, meditatively, "for I'm not morbid, and I don't have the
blues very often, but almost ever since I've been at Aunt Jane's, I've
been restless and disturbed. I know there's no reason for it, but I
can't help it."

"Don't you think that it's because you have nothing to do? You've always
been so busy, and you aren't used to idleness."

"Perhaps so. I miss my work, but at the same time, I haven't sense
enough to do it."

"Poor child, you're tired--too tired to rest."

"Yes, I am tired," answered Ruth, the tears of nervous weakness coming
into her eyes.

"Come out into the garden."

Miss Ainslie drew a fleecy shawl over her shoulders and led her guest
outdoors. Though she kept pace with the world in many other ways, it
was an old-fashioned garden, with a sun-dial and an arbour, and little
paths, nicely kept, that led to the flower beds and circled around them.
There were no flowers as yet, except in a bed of wild violets under
a bay window, but tiny sprigs of green were everywhere eloquent with
promise, and the lilacs were budded.

"That's a snowball bush over there," said Miss Ainslie, "and all
that corner of the garden will be full of roses in June. They're
old-fashioned roses, that I expect you wouldn't care for-blush and
cinnamon and sweet briar--but I love them all. That long row is half
peonies and half bleeding-hearts, and I have a bed of columbines under a
window on the other side of the house. The mignonette and forget-me-nots
have a place to themselves, for I think they belong together--sweetness
and memory.

"There's going to be lady-slippers over there," Miss Ainslie went on,
"and sweet william. The porch is always covered with morning-glories--I
think they're beautiful and in that