“I never can forget it, never! I am not an angel yet, Rose, cherubim or seraphim, I suppose Miss Fanny would say;” and he smiled oddly, “but I am trying. I do not disdain the helps as I used to. I do not feel that patience and self-control are exclusively girlish virtues.”
“No,” I returned, “we girls will not rob you of them.”
“You are generous. But then you always were. I am beginning to learn that the grand corner-stones for the human soul are truth and love, the truth that leads us to be fair and just to others, and the love to our neighbor.”
“Here we are,” I said. “Do you want to come in?”
He followed me and we did our errand.
“I could not understand last summer why you loved to do these things;” he began when we were homeward-bound.
“You considered it an evidence of a depraved taste?”
He smiled rather sadly.
“I supposed people consulted their own pleasure first. Doing any rather distasteful deed and hunting around until you found a bright side to it was like so much Sanscrit to me.”
“He came not to please—Himself;” I said solemnly.