The pot that held the six spindling shoots had streaks of white mould down its sides, and the earth was black and hard with the deluge of water with which Mr.Dale's anxious care usually began the season.

He began now to loosen it gently with his penknife, saying, "I'm sure they'll flourish if you look after them." "I will if I'm here, uncle Henry," she replied.
"Ah, my dear," he said, looking at her sharply, "you are not thinking of that hospital plan again ?" "Yes," she answered, "I cannot help it.

I feel as though I must be of some use in the world." She was standing in the stream of wintry sunshine which flooded the narrow window, and Mr.Dale saw that some white threads had begun to show in the bronze-brown waves of her hair.

"Yes," she continued, "it is so hard to keep still.

I must do something, and be something." Mr.Dale stopped digging in his flower-pots, and looked at her without speaking for a moment; then he said, "I wonder if you will not be something nobler by the discipline of this quiet life, Helen?
And are you not really doing something if you rouse us out of our sleepy satisfaction with our own lives, and make us more earnest?
I know that cannot be your object, as it would defeat itself by self-consciousness, but it is true, my dear." She did not speak.
"You see," he went on, in his gentle voice, "your life cannot be negative anywhere.