"It was such a very little thing."
"One of the steps."
Yes. It was the little things, the steps, that filled the long, long path. A warm glow suffused Kathie's face. She was thinking far back,—an age ago it appeared, yet it was only two years,—that her mother had said the fairies were not all dead. If Puck and Peas-blossom and Cobweb and Titania no longer danced in cool, green hollows, to the music of lily bells, there were Faith and Love and Earnest Endeavor, and many another, to run to and fro with sweet messages and pleasant deeds.
"I am very glad and thankful that you were polite and entertaining," Uncle Robert remarked, presently. "We never know what a kind word or a little pains, rightly taken, may do. It is the grand secret of a useful life,—sowing the seed."
"I must answer her letter, and express my thanks. But O, isn't it funny that she thinks me such a great lady!"
"Suppose we should drive out to see her on some Saturday? Where is Middleville?"
"North of here," returned Aunt Ruth, "in a little sort of hollow between the mountains, about seven or eight miles, I should think."
"How delightful it would be!" exclaimed Kathie.
"We will try it some day. I am very fond of plain, social country people, whose manners may be unpolished, but whose lives are earnest and honest nevertheless. We cannot all be moss-roses, with a fine enclosing grace," said Uncle Robert.
Kathie read her letter over again to herself, feeling quite sure that Sarah had made some improvement since the evening of the Fair.