“’Drudgery is the gray angel of success, for drudgery is the doing of one thing long after it ceases to be amusing, and it is ’this one thing I do’ that gathers me together from my chaos, that concentrates me from possibilities to powers and turns powers into achievements.  The aim in life is what the backbone is in the body, if we have no aim we have no meaning.  Lose us and the earth has lost nothing, no niche is empty, no force has ceased to play, for we have no aim and therefore we are still—­nobody.  Our bodies are known and answer in this world to such or such a name, but, as to our inner selves, with real and awful meaning our walking bodies might be labelled ‘An unknown man sleeps here!’

“’But we can be artists also in our daily task,—­artists not artisans.  The artist is he who strives to perfect his work, the artisan strives to get through it.  If I cannot realize my ideal I can at least idealize my real—­How?  By trying to be perfect in it.  If I am but a raindrop in a shower, I will be at least a perfect drop.  If but a leaf in a whole June, I will be a perfect leaf.  This is the beginning of all Gospels, that the kingdom of heaven is at hand just where we are.’”

“Oh!” cried Evadne, drawing a long breath, “that is beautiful!  I feel as if I had been lifted up until I touched the sky.”

“Marthe,” exclaimed Mr. Everidge reproachfully, suddenly appearing in the doorway with a sock drawn over each arm, “it is incomprehensible to me you do not remember that my physical organism and darns have absolutely no affinity.”

Mrs. Everidge laughed brightly.  “If you will make holes, Horace, I must make darns,” she said.

“Not a natural sequence at all!” he retorted testily.  “When the wear and tear of time becomes visible in my underwear it must be relegated to Reuben.”

“But Reuben’s affinity for patches may be no stronger than your own, Uncle Horace,” said Evadne mischievously.

Mr. Everidge waved his sock-capped hands with a gesture of disdain.  “The lower orders, my dear Evadne, are incapable of those delicate perceptions which constitute the mental atmosphere of those of finer mould.  The delft does not feel the blow which would shiver the porcelain into atoms, and Reuben’s epidermis is, I imagine, of such a horny consistency that he would walk in oblivious unconcern upon these elevations of needlework which are as a ploughshare to my sensitive nerves.  It is the penalty one has to pay for being of finer clay than the common herd of men.”

Evadne looked at Mrs. Everidge.  A deep flush of shame had dyed her cheeks and her lips were quivering.

“Oh, Horace,” she cried, “Reuben is such a faithful boy!”

“My dear,” said her husband airily, “I make no aspersions against his moral character, but he certainly cannot be classed among the velvet-skinned aristocracy.  By the way, I wish you would see in future that my undergarments are of a silken texture.  My flesh rebels at anything approaching to harshness,” and then he went complacently back to his library to weave and fashion the graceful phrases which flowed from his facile pen.