epressive atmosphere. Cyrus and Deborah were
nothing if not thorough. The name of Joscelyn's mother was never
mentioned to her; she was never called anything but Josie, which
sounded more "Christian-like" than Joscelyn; and all the flowering out
of her alien beauty was repressed as far as might be in the plainest
and dullest of dresses and the primmest arrangement possible to
riotous ripe-brown curls.

The girl was never allowed to visit her Aunt Annice, although
frequently invited. Miss Ashton, however, wrote to her occasionally,
and every Christmas sent a box of presents which even Cyrus and
Deborah Morgan could not forbid her to accept, although they looked
with disapproving eyes and ominously set lips at the dainty, frivolous
trifles the actress woman sent. They would have liked to cast those
painted fans and lace frills and beflounced lingerie into the fire as
if they had been infected rags from a pest-house.

The path thus set for Joscelyn's dancing feet to walk in was indeed
sedate and narrow. She was seldom allowed to mingle with the young
people of even quiet, harmless Spring Valley; she was never allowed to
attend local concerts, much less take part in them; she was forbidden
to read novels, and Cyrus Morgan burned an old copy of Shakespeare
which Paul had given him years ago and which he had himself read and
treasured, lest its perusal should awaken unlawful instincts in
Joscelyn's heart. The girl's passion for reading was so marked that
her grandparents felt that it was their duty to repress it as far as
lay in their power.

But Joscelyn's vitality was such that all her bonds and bands served
but little to check or retard the growth of her rich nature. Do what
they might they could not make a Morgan of her. Her every step was a
dance, her every word and gesture full of a grace and virility that
filled the old folks with uneasy wonder. She seemed to them charged
with dangerous tendencies all the more potent from repression. She was
sweet-tempered and sunny, truthful and modest, but she was as little
like the trim, simple Spring Valley girls as a crimson rose is like a
field daisy, and her unlikeness bore heavily on her grandparents.

Yet they loved her and were proud of her. "Our girl Josie," as they
called her, was more to them than they would have admitted even to
themselves, and in the main they were satisfied with her, although the
grandmother grumbled because Josie did not take kindly to patchwork
a