A quiet happiness had settled down upon Ruth and the old perturbed spirit was gone, but Miss Ainslie was subtly different. “I feel as if something was going to happen,” she said.
“Something nice?”
“I—don't know.” The sweet face was troubled and there were fine lines about the mouth, such as Ruth had never seen there before.
“You're nervous, Miss Ainslie—it's my turn to scold now.”
“I never scolded you, did I deary?”
“You couldn't scold anybody—you're too sweet. You're not unhappy, are you, Miss Ainslie?”
“I? Why, no! Why should I be unhappy?” Her deep eyes were fixed upon Ruth.
“I—I didn't know,” Ruth answered, in confusion.
“I learned long ago,” said Miss Ainslie, after a little, “that we may be happy or not, just as we choose. Happiness is not a circumstance, nor a set of circumstances; it's only a light, and we may keep it burning if we will. So many of us are like children, crying for the moon, instead of playing contentedly with the few toys we have. We're always hoping for something, and when it does n't come we fret and worry; when it does, why there's always something else we'd rather have. We deliberately make nearly all of our unhappiness, with our own unreasonable discontent, and nothing will ever make us happy, deary, except the spirit within.”
“But, Miss Ainslie,” Ruth objected, “do you really think everybody can be happy?”