Constance sighed contentedly. “Oh, Mrs. Farraday, you are so good for us all. I'm a modern backslider, and hardly ever go to church, but you always make me feel as if I had just been.”
“Backslider, Constance? 'Thy own works praise thee, and thy children rise up and call thee blessed—thy husband also,'” quoted their hostess.
“Well, I don't know if my boys and Theodore call me blessed, but I hope the Suffragists will one day. Goodness knows I work hard enough for them.”
“I've believed in suffrage all my life, like all Friends,” Mrs. Farraday answered, “but where thee has worked I have only prayed for it.”
“If prayers are heard, I am sure yours should count more than my work, dear lady,” said Constance, affectionately pressing the other's hand.
The little Quaker's eyes were bright as she looked at her friend.
“Ah, my dear, thee is too generous to an old woman.”
Mary loved this little dialogue, “What dears all my new friends are,” she thought; “how truly good.” All the world seemed full of love to her in these days; her heart blossomed out to these kind people; she folded them in the arms of her spirit. All about, in nature and in human kind, she felt the spring burgeoning, and within herself she felt it most of all. But of this Mary could express nothing, save through her face—she had never looked more beautiful.
Coming into the dining room she found Farraday watching her. He seemed tired. She put out her hand.
“May we really have it? You are sure?”