That evening, therefore, after dinner, as they sat round the fire
chatting, the doctor remarked: "But you know, Mary, it won't do to step
aside for others to get before you in the battle of life. You owe a duty
to yourself and--and your friends."
"I am quite aware of that," Mary replied, "but this was such an
exceptional case. Ethel Forrest is so poor, and----"
[Sidenote: "Each for Himself!"]
"Yes, yes. But, my dear girl, it is each for himself in this world."
"Is it?" Mary asked, and again there was a wistful, far-away look in her
blue eyes. With an effort, she pulled herself together, and went on
softly: "Shall I tell you what I saw as I returned home across the moor
from the station? The day was nearly over, and the clouds were gathering
overhead. The wind was rising and falling as it swept across the
moorland. The rich purple of the heather had gone, and was succeeded by
dull brown--sometimes almost grey--each little floret of the ling, as
Ruskin said, folding itself into a cross as it was dying. Poor little
purply-pink petals! They had had their day, they had had their fill of
sunshine, they had been breathed on by the soft breezes of a genial
summer, and now all the brightness for them was over; they folded their
petals, becoming just like a cross as they silently died away. You see,"
she looked up with a smile, "even the heather knows that the way of
self-sacrifice is the only way that is worth while.
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