"Are those better than cowslips?" he asked lightly.
"They are more wonderfully beautiful—they are not better in their place."
"How is that?"
"I told you cowslips were bits of spring," said Faith smiling. "These are not that. I think everything in the world—I mean, the natural world—has its place, that it fills."
"Better than any other would?"
"I suppose so. Yes."
"That is admirable philosophy," said the doctor. "Excellent to keep one contented. Three feet of snow is then as good as May zephyrs! Daisies and dandelions are fair substitutes for geraniums and cacti! And these barren granite fields, where the skeleton rock has hardly covered itself skin deep with soil, are better than flowery prairies of rolling land, and fertile wildernesses of roses!"
"Well," said Faith; "you needn't laugh. I think they are."
"By what transmutation of philosophy?"
Faith's philosophy was put to the test by certain sounds which just then came to her ear; the hall door opened and shut quick though softly, and Reuben came lightly upstairs—two stairs at a time!—but his knock at Faith's door was almost as quiet as usual. Whatever spirit of energy was at work in him, however, calmed itself down at sight of Dr. Harrison—whom he did not then stay to greet, but coming up with a swift steady step to Faith's chair, knelt down there and gave her his hand with, "Miss Faith, are you better to-day?"