"Yes, dear, a little, sometimes; but I am sure we ought not to encourage such a feeling—"
"I can't help it," interrupted Vera, a little vehemently, "I was made so!"
Her mother gave a little laugh. "That is very comfortable," she said, archly.
"Well, then—I don't know how to help it!" pursued Vera. "I perfectly love pretty scenery, and country flowers, and blue skies, and—and—"
"Oh, stop, Vera! So do I; but now let us look at the other side. Think of the hundreds and thousands who have to live in the towns, and who have not the great treat which you and I have been given, of spending a whole fortnight in this sweet place."
"That doesn't make me more contented, it only makes me so sorry for them that I can't enjoy myself one bit."
Vera dashed two or three tears from her eyes, and looked over the pretty prospect.
"Well, dear, let us think of it like this. God, our loving Father, sees what we need. He knows all about us; all about our delight in pretty, refined things; all about how tired and weary we have been, you with your examinations, and I with the cares of home, and so He has sent us what will rest us, and help us to go on again."
"When I look at this holiday as His gift, and thank Him for it, it makes every fresh beauty more beautiful; it helps me to pray for the weary ones who have not got one, and to plan how, in our little way, we may shed brightness and pleasure round on those we do know—"
"You're always trying to do that!" said Vera, "But—"