The Garden

There was a beautiful serenity about her, evident in every line of
her face and figure. Time had dealt gently with her, and except on her
queenly head had left no trace of his passing. The delicate scent of
the lavender floated from her gown and her laces, almost as if it were
a part of her, and brought visions of an old-time garden, whose gentle
mistress was ever tranquil and content. As she sat there, smiling, she
might have been Peace grown old.

"Miss Ainslie," said Ruth, suddenly, "have you ever had any trouble?"

A shadow crossed her face, and then she answered, patiently, "Why,
yes--I've had my share."

"I don't mean to be personal," Ruth explained, "I was just thinking."

"I understand," said the other, gently. Then, after a little, she spoke
again: "We all have trouble, deary--it's part of life; but I believe that we
all share equally in the joy of the world. Allowing for temperament,
I mean. Sorrows that would crush some are lightly borne by others, and
some have the gift of finding great happiness in little things.

"Then, too, we never have any more than we can bear--nothing that has
not been borne before, and bravely at that. There isn't a new sorrow in
the world--they're all old ones--but we can all find new happiness if we
look in the right way."

The voice had a full music, instinct with tenderness, and gradually
Ruth's troubled spirit was eased. "I don't know what's the matter with
me," she said, meditatively, "for I'm not morbid, and I don't have the
blues very often, but almost ever since I've been at Aunt Jane's, I've
been restless and disturbed. I know there's no reason for it, but I
can't help it."