for Pearl's imagination had clothed her with all the
virtues and graces.

Hers was a strangely inconsistent character, spiritually
minded, but selfish; loving humanity when it is spelled
with a capital, but knowing nothing of the individual.
The flower of holiness in her heart was like the haughty
orchid that blooms in the hothouse, untouched by wind or
cold, beautiful to behold but comforting no one with its
beauty.

Pearl Watson was like the rugged little anemone, the wind
flower that lifts its head from the cheerless prairie.
No kind hand softens the heat or the cold, nor tempers
the wind, and yet the very winds that blow upon it and
the hot sun that beats upon it bring to it a grace, a
hardiness, a fragrance of good cheer, that gladdens the
hearts of all who pass that way.

Mrs. Francis found herself strongly attracted to Pearl.
Pearl, the housekeeper, the homemaker, a child with a
woman's responsibility, appealed to Mrs. Francis. She
thought about Pearl very often.

Noticing one day that Pearl was thin and pale, she decided
at once that she needed a health talk. Pearl sat like a
graven image while Mrs. Francis conscientiously tried to
stir up in her the seeds of right living.

"Oh, ma!" Pearl said to her mother that night, when the