What cheer? What cheer?”

The woman was almost overborne by her yearning to go up the shaded walks, to cross the ancient lawns, to mount the shallow steps, to enter into and become a component part of the story-book life, but for all their gates swung wide and vines wrapped confidently about rusted hinges she could sense the barriers.

All hope was abandoned, presently, for herself, but surely the little Glen, transplanted so young, must be allowed to take root, to climb and cling, to bud and blossom in this rich soil! Childish friendships were her liveliest hope, and she talked down the doctor’s democracy and sent the child to a private school which had functioned since Civil War days. Nancy Carey, a beautiful, mildly amiable child who had nodded and smiled at Glen, attended Miss Josephine’s little seminary, and Effie built feverishly upon her favor. The Careys owned a cotton mill, and their shabby, stately ante-bellum mansion was her favorite of all the dwellings on The Hill.

“Darling,” Effie urged her daughter, “you must be very nice to that little girl!”

[11]“Why?” She was a downright child, with a measuring glance very like her father’s, for all her startling beauty.

[11]

“Because—why, because she’s such a very nice little girl, dearie, and Mama hopes you’ll be little chums. You might walk home with her after school, because the exercise is so good for you, and remember what your father says about holding your shoulders back and taking deep breaths. And if Nancy should ask you to come in for a little while, why, Mama wouldn’t mind!”

Mrs. Darrow’s valentine party for her daughter’s little schoolmates was a gallant but ghastly effort, seared into the child’s memory for all time. She always remembered her mother, hectic red spots on her cheekbones, breathing fast, cutting out fat red hearts and stringing them about the ugly room, making tiny heart-shaped cakes, slackly assisted by the yellow slattern Emma-leen. She had taken the place of the dusky servitor (adoring) who sang and toiled simultaneously in the long-dead northern vision. Emma-leen sang even less than she toiled, and clearly scorned her timid mistress.

The day was mild and fine. Birds perched on greening branches and butterflies balanced delicately on flowering shrubs: doors and windows were wide and there was the feel of spring in the house. They were ready early—Glen in a white dotted swiss[12] with a blue sash and a blue bow in her 

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