THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
always going to be one? Wasn't it in her to play fair even with William Grogan, who had fought for her like one of the ancient heroes, who had denied himself, toiled in the hot sun for her, and guarded her at night? Her superiority, her bloodstock, her education, her talent, what were these compared with the pure nobility of the heart? A cheat! She doubled her knees, laid her head upon them, and rocked.
She did not comprehend immediately what this whole-hearted self-condemnation signified, that she had reached the turning-point in her outlook upon life. Curtain after curtain was torn aside, and at last there was light in all the corners of her soul. She knew Ruth Warren for what she was.
One morning, some days later, she sprang out of bed, stronger than she had been at any time during her convalescence. Life! Real life, the day-by-day affairs; never again to look at life obliquely, but squarely; to accept the inevitable, clear-eyed, head high; to shoulder cheerfully the burden of each day and cheerfully to lay it down at night; to drive away the false gods of complacency and self-interest. … Not her kind? No, William Grogan was not her kind. Never would she be able to pull herself up to his level. He would have to do that.
Self-analysis is the best of moral tonics. The fact that we can dig into our innermost thoughts and distinguish the good from the bad, that we are able to weigh justly the one against the other, is in itself a spur to noble deeds. By this process we
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