"Take care, Sir Optimist, that is to be. You're taking the wrong turn, comrade. Come away from the down to 'has been,' and climb to 'will be,' short metre."
It was all as they said. The mother's gentle face in the doorway, looking rested and less faded for the week passed in the society of a simple, noble man; the father's gay and debonair, as Amy remembered it—how long ago, was it? And last of all Friend Adam, in gray attire, his broadbrim crowning his snowy hair, his expression one of childlike happiness and freedom from care.
He welcomed them both with all heartiness, but Amy was dearest. She had always been, perhaps because she bore the name of his long dead wife, and had always seemed to stand as a child to his childless life.
So after the fine supper was over, while before a blazing fire in another room Mr. and Mrs. Kaye discussed with Hallam all the events of the past week, Amy and the old man who had lived for more than eighty years a blameless, helpful life sat by a window in another place and looked out into the moonlight saying little, but enjoying all.
"Dear father Adam, shall I tell thee"—for with him she always drifted into the sweet speech which was hers by birthright and his for all his life—"shall I tell thee how it seems to me, as if thee had learned every single lesson life and God has had to teach. Thee has had poverty and sorrow, and endured the wrong that others have done thee. Thee has seen thy kindred go away and leave thee alone. It is just like a good soldier who has been in a thick fight and a sailor who has swam in deep waters, but has come out safe on the other side. Thee is so calm and happy, like Mrs. Jones's little Belinda, who sits in the sun and sings and croons to herself, with never a plaything or anything good about her except her own serene happiness. Isn't it?"
"Maybe, child. It may be. It should be, certainly. There should be no care in either extreme of life. Both ends are so close to the Father's house.
"Thee is right though, about the middle of life, little Amy. It is a time of struggle and rebuff."
"But to-night it seems as if it could never have been so with thee. Tell me, father Adam, how thee has kept thyself so simple and good."
"Nay, little one, not that. Simple, indeed, but not good. There is none good but One. Yet there are certain things that help. I'll tell thee what has helped me most, that is, in my daily life in the world, from which we can never escape while the heart beats."
The dear old man rose, limped toward an ancient secretary, and took from it a small book. Just an ordinary account book, ruled for the keeping of small affairs, but arranged with every page inscribed by the trembling fingers of this all-thoughtful friend.