The gates ajar. By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.

The Gates Ajar. 47
It really did me good to begin the day with
a hearty laugh. The days usually look so
long and blank at the beginning, that I can
hardly make up my mind to step out into
them. Faith's pillow was the famous pebble in the pond, to which authors of original imagination invariably resort; I felt its
little circles widening out all through the
day. I wonder if Aunt Winifred thought of
that. She thinks of many things.
For instance, afraid apparently that I should
think I was afflicted with one of those professional visitors who hold that a chance relationship justifies them in imposing on one from
the beginning to the end of the chapter, she
managed to make me understand, this morning, that she was expecting to go back to
Uncle Forceythe's brother on Saturday. I
was surprised at myself to find that this
proposition struck me with dismay. I insisted
with all my heart on keeping her for a week
at the least, and sent forth a fiat that her
trunks should be unpacked.
We have had a quiet, homelike day. Faith
found her way to the orchard, and installed
herself there for the day, overhauling the
muddy grass with her bare hands to find