"Mr.O'Hara wants to know if he may speak to you for a minute before you go out ?" "Oh, yes, I'm not in a hurry this morning." Then Miss Polly disappeared and an instant later the vacant space in the doorway was filled exuberantly by O'Hara.
"I wanted to be the first to wish you a happy birthday," he began, a little shyly, a little awkwardly, though his face was flushing with pleasure.
"The flowers are wonderful!" For a minute, while she answered him, he seemed to be a part of the unreal intense brightness of the world outside--of that magic world where the elm tree and the grass and the sunny street were all imprisoned in crystal.

He diffused a glowing consciousness of success, a sanguine faith in the inherent goodness of experience.

For, as she had discovered long ago, O'Hara was one of those who stood not for the elimination of struggle, but for the complete acceptance of life.

He had sprung out of ugliness, he had lived intimately with evil; and yet more than any one she had ever known, he seemed to her to radiate the simple, uncalculating joy of living.

He was the strongest person she knew, as well as the happiest.