Arthur Stringer

“ Macraven had never thought of Sybil, much less of young Sewell, as an instrument of inward reorganization. And he told Anne so, with no mincing of words.
“I think you're wrong there,” said truthful Anne. “She's really influencing you—even you—more than you imagine. She's showing you a side of life you never really saw before. She's opening your eyes—and mine, too—to the fact that the decorative side of existence is more enduring and more important than we really thought it was. For, in a way, I think it's possible to get too wise, in this world, don't you?” ”

“ Anne thought she knew the particular people to whom he was referring.
“I think we ought to study happiness just as carefully as we study sorrow,” she said with her habitual solemn headshake.
“But it's so hard to swallow—some one else's happiness,” pursued Macraven. “We get envious of it. We're always thinking of how much we're missing ourselves.”
“Then it ought to teach us the trick for our own use,” said Anne. “That's why I feel, so often, that Sybil—yes, and even young Dickie Sewell—is doing me such a lot of good.” ”

“ See what an eye for color and harmony she instinctively has! And she has the same instinct for the bright and warm feelings of life!”
“But how long would that childish sort of life appeal to you or me?” demanded Macraven, in defense of his ultimate dignities of existence.
“It might help to keep our hearts from getting macadamized,” responded Anne, with her eyes on the distant treetops.
“I suppose a life of effort does make us hard!” conceded the professor of anthropology.
“That's the blessing of children,” said the ingenuous Anne, “They keep the dust off the heart.” ”