presided at the club.

As for her unmarried sister Janet, who was older and had graduated from
a young ladies' seminary instead of a college, whose early fancy had
been guided into the lady-like ways of antimacassars and pincushions
and wax flowers under glass shades, she was a straighter proposition. No
astral pretensions had Janet. She stayed, body and soul together, in
the old ways, and did not even project her shadow out of them. There is
seldom room enough for one's shadow in one's earliest way of life, but
there was plenty for Janet's. There had been a Janet unmarried in every
Trumbull family for generations. That in some subtle fashion accounted
for her remaining single. There had also been an unmarried Jonathan
Trumbull, and that accounted for Johnny's old bachelor uncle Jonathan.
Jonathan was a retired clergyman. He had retired before he had preached
long, because of doctrinal doubts, which were hereditary. He had
a little, dark study in Johnny's father's house, which was the old
Trumbull homestead, and he passed much of his time there, debating
within himself that matter of doctrines.

Presently Johnny, assiduously kicking up dust, met his uncle Jonathan,
who passed without the slightest notice. Johnny did not mind at all. He
was used to it. Presently his own father appeared, driving along in
his buggy the bay mare at a steady jog, with the next professional call
quite clearly upon her equine mind. And Johnny's father did not see him.
Johnny did not mind that, either. He expected nothing different.

Then Johnny saw his mother approaching. She was coming from the club
meeting. She held up her silk skirts high, as usual, and carried a
nice little parcel of papers tied with ribbon. She also did not notice
Johnny, who, however, out of sweet respect for his mother's nice silk
dress, stopped kicking up dust. Mrs. Trumbull on the village street was
really at home preparing a shortcake for supper.

Johnny eyed his mother's faded but rather beautiful face under the
rose-trimmed bonnet with admiration and entire absence of resentment.
Then he walked on and kicked up the dust again. He loved to kick up the
dust in summer, the fallen leaves in autumn, and the snow in winter.
Johnny was not a typical Trumbull. None of them had ever cared for
simple amusements like that. Looking back for generations on his
father's and mother's side (both had been Trumbulls, but very distantly
related), none could be discovered who in th