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116 this dear girl’s voice, nor blind to the patient, self-forgetful depth of her pitying love. “I’ll get on. It’s a great thing to find you—each what you are.”

“Well, I know I’d feel like an uprooted plant from the king’s garden, dying on a country stone wall, if I were in your place!” cried Jane, with an explosion that amazed her mother.

“You are the most like me of the three, Janie,” she said. “But I was never the little stick of dynamite that you are. I was merely a girl that loved her own way of being happy and found it. I never cared with the force you do; I liked and disliked quietly, and quietly slipped through what I disliked and chose what I liked. I still like pleasantness; it isn’t particularly pleasant to feel too strongly, I fancy; I really never tried it. So I mean to enjoy rusting out here in Vineclad with you—somehow! I haven’t found the way yet. Don’t look so anxious, Mary sweetheart. How did they happen to call you Mary? You are Martha, now, ‘troubled about many things.’ No, you’re not! You are precisely what we mean when we say Mary!” Mrs. Garden lightly swayed herself backward and tipped up her face to invite Mary to kiss her, which she did, with heart as well as lips, feeling