"You must stop grieving over Edith," he said gently, "and blaming
yourself for what's happened. You've been a wonderful mother--there
aren't many like you in the world. Think how well the other seven
children are coming along, instead of how the eighth slipped up.
Think how blessed we've been never to lose a single one of them by
death. Think--"
"I do think, Howard." Mrs. Gray pressed his hand in return, smiling
bravely through her tears. "I'm an old fool to give way like this, an' a
worse one to let you catch me at it. But it ain't wholly Edith I'm
cryin' about. Land, every time I start to curse the devil for Jack
Weston, I get interrupted because I have to stop an' thank the Lord for
Peter. An' all the angels in heaven together singin' Halleluia led by
Gabriel for choir-master, couldn't half express my feelin's for Sylvia! I
guess 'twould always be that way if we'd stop to think. Our blessin's is
so much thicker than our troubles, that the troubles don't show up no
more than a little yellow mustard growin' up in a fine piece of
oats--unless we're bound to look at the mustard instead of the oats.
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