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"But I don't love him. I love you!" Patricia shut her door with a snap and turned to her sister with a glowing face, sweeping her stray tendrils back with an eager gesture. "Stuff!" protested Patricia stoutly. "You know you've been simply crazy to get here. Why spoil it all by squibbling? I think it's perfectly gorgeous. I'm wild to begin myself, and I'm about as green as any old shamrock. Besides, it's a mighty poor way to show your gratitude to Bruce for putting you right slap into the highest classes without slaving your life out for years, perhaps. I'll tell him——".

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"There isn't any more goodness in dismal looks, no, nor half so much, as in happy faces. Don't the cherubim sing eternally? Is there anything said about dark days in the New Jerusalem? I'm ashamed of you, Judith Kendall, for not knowing that it's twice as brave and good to be cheerful and pretty as it is to be moping and dull. Look at Elinor—would we love her if she'd been fussing about the hard times we had? Not much! Every bright smile she had for those horrid times has made her more adorable to me and I look on every bit of happiness we had in those poor days as just so much wrested from the powers of darkness." She stopped suddenly, with a little gasp of embarrassment, as Elinor entered. "Hush, she'll hear you!" warned Howes, laughing a little, nevertheless, whereupon Patricia instantly decided that she had been mistaken in Margaret Howes' character, and that she was less open-minded and warm-hearted than she had believed. "It must be Tom Hughes' birthday," said Elinor. "But whose ever it is, we are going to celebrate, since we're invited. I'll write 'immejit,' as Hannah Ann says." "Where is it?".