Harry, like other young men, hated to be lectured, but from his aunt he never took anything amiss. He admired her for her brilliant qualities, and loved her with a love near to worship.
“I say, auntie,” he said, with a little uncertain laugh, “it's like going to church to hear you, only it's a deal more pleasant.”
“But, Harry, am I not right?” she replied, earnestly. “Do you think that you will get the best out of your life by just having fun? Oh, do you know when I went with Kate to the Institute the other night and saw those boys my heart ached. I thought of my own boys, and—” The voice ceased in a pathetic little catch, the sensitive lips trembled, the beautiful gray-brown eyes filled with sudden tears. For a few moments there was silence; then, with a wavering smile, and a gentle, apologetic air, she said: “But I must not make Harry think he is in church.”
“Dear Aunt Murray,” cried Harry, “do lecture me. I'd enjoy it, and you can't make it too strong. You are just an angel.” He left his seat, and going over to her chair, knelt down and put his arms about her.
“Don't you all wish she was your aunt?” he said, kissing her.
“She IS mine,” cried Kate, smiling at her through shining tears.
“She's more,” said Ranald, and his voice was husky with emotion.
But with the bright, joyous little laugh Ranald knew so well, she smoothed back Harry's hair, and kissing him on the forehead, said: “I am sure you will do good work some day. But I shall be quite spoiled here; I must really get home.”
As Ranald left the Raymond house he knew well what he should say to Mr. St. Clair next morning. He wondered at himself that he had ever been in doubt. He had been for an hour in another world where the atmosphere was pure and the light clear. Never till that night had he realized the full value of that life of patient self-sacrifice, so unconscious of its heroism. He understood then, as never before, the mysterious influence of that gentle, sweet-faced lady over every one who came to know her, from the simple, uncultured girls of the Indian Lands to the young men about town of Harry's type. Hers was the power of one who sees with open eyes the unseen, and who loves to the forgetting of self those for whom the Infinite love poured Itself out in death.
“Going home, Harry?” inquired Ranald.