"But think how nice it is that they have a mother and father and a nice home of their own. Aren't you glad they are not friendless waifs?"
It was a new thought. Peace paused in her lament, and then with a bright smile answered, "It is nicer that way, ain't it? 'Cause even if they had been orphans, maybe grandpa would think he had his hands full with the six of us, and couldn't make room for any more. Lewie can bite like a badger and I 'magine grandpa wouldn't stand for much of that. Anyway I wouldn't. When I grow bigger and have a house of my own, then I can adopt all the children I want to, can't I? Just like that lady that was here a minute ago."
"Mrs. Lane? Why, she has no adopted children!" exclaimed Elizabeth, who had been a silent spectator of part of the scene.
"But I heard her tell you so myself," insisted Peace.
"When?"
"This afternoon while I was writing in my book. She said they decided to adopt Resol—Resol—something."
Fortunately the minister was lighting the fire in the kitchen stove, so Peace could not see the laughter in his face, and Elizabeth had long since learned to hide her mirth from the keen childish eyes, so she explained, "It was not a child, Peace, which she was talking about. Doesn't your Missionary Band ever adopt resolutions of any sort in their business meetings?"
"I never saw any they adopted, though we're s'porting two orphan heathen in India."
Elizabeth could not refrain from smiling slightly, but she carefully explained to Peace the meaning of the perplexing phrase, as she bustled about her preparations for supper, and the incident was apparently forgotten.
While she was putting things to rights for the night, long after the children had been tucked away in their beds, she found the preacher seated by her desk chuckling over a little book among the papers before him, and peeping over his shoulder she saw it was the brown and gold volume which she had given Peace that afternoon. On the fly-leaf, just above the quaint brownie chorus, in straggling inky letters, Peace had penned the title, "Glimmers of Gladness," this being as near as she could recall the name Elizabeth had suggested. Then followed the most extraordinarily original diary the woman had ever seen, and she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks, as she read the words written with such painstaking care and plenty of ink: