"My, nothing's the matter with the world to-day! It's so good it almost
hurts." She raised her head from the white petticoat she was ironing, and gazed
out of the doorway and down the valley with a warm light in her eyes and
a glowing face. The snow-tipped mountains far above and away, the fir-
covered, cedar-ranged foothills, and, lower down, the wonderful maple and
ash woods, with their hundred autumn tints, all merging to one soft, red
tone, the roar of the stream tumbling down the ravine from the heights,
the air that braced the nerves--it all seemed to be part of her, the
passion of life corresponding to the passion of living in her. After watching the scene dreamily for a moment, she turned and laid the
iron she had been using upon the hot stove near. Taking up another, she
touched it with a moistened finger to test the heat, and, leaning above
the table again, passed it over the linen for a few moments, smiling at
something that was in her mind. Presently she held the petticoat up,
turned it round, then hung it in front of her, eyeing it with critical
pleasure.
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