"I just wondered what you would be like," Cousin Pattie remarked.
"I suppose I've changed," Reba made answer, glancing up timidly.
"Changed! I wish to heaven you had!" vehemently the older woman exclaimed. "I said to myself last time I was here, 'She is like a bell that's never been rung' and you seem just the same to me now. I wish to goodness somebody would get hold of the end of your rope and make you thrill and tremble with the wonder that's in you. I wish I could get hold of it."
Reba looked down at her folded hands abashed, and was silent. Cousin Pattie shook her head and sighed audibly, as much as to say, "I give you up." Then, "You're like a pool of water," she broke out afresh. "Stuck up here all alone on your New England hill-top—no inlet, no outlet, and if you don't do something about it you'll dry up, as sure as preaching. There won't be anything left of you but the shallow impression of your shape and size."
Reba still looked at her folded hands. "It's hard sometimes," she groped, "to do one's duty, and at the same time, to—to"
"Pooh, pooh!" broke in Cousin Pattie. "Don't tell me you're one of those cowards hiding under a duty-cross. I hoped you'd inherited some of your ancestors' get-up-and-go. You must have a little of my blood in your veins, and the aunt whose name you've got was no weakling. And besides, there's your own grandfather! They say characteristics skip generations. Your grandfather was a courageous man, Reba,—cantankerous old fellow, but no coward, I can tell you that. He didn't let his conscience grow into a fat
