ossible. The promised books
arrived--brought over by Johnson, the butler, who viewed our humble
quarters with lofty disdain--and I read one of them aloud to Mother, a
chapter each evening. More flowers came also and the darkened bedroom
became a bower of beauty and perfume. If I had yielded to my own wishes
I should have returned both roses and books. It was better, as I saw
it, that we and our wealthy neighbors had nothing to do with each other.
Real friendship was out of the question; the memory of Mrs. Colton's
frigid bow and her reference to me as a "person" proved that. Her
daughter might think otherwise, or might think that she thought so,
but I knew better. However, I did not like to pain Mother by refusing
offerings which, to her, were expressions of sympathy and regard, so I
had no protest and tried to enthuse over the gifts and loans. After
all, what did they amount to? One tea-rose bred from Dorinda's carefully
tended bush, or one gushful story book selected by Almena Doane from
the new additions to the town library and sent because she thought "Mrs.
Comfort might find it sort of soothin' and distractin'," meant more real
unselfish thought and kindly feeling than all the conservatory exotics
and new novels which the rich girl's whim supplied from her overflowing
store. I was surprised only that the whim lasted so long.

Behind all this, I think, and confirming my feeling, was the fact that
Miss Colton did not repeat her call. A week or more passed and she did
not come. I caught glimpses of her occasionally in the auto, or at the
post-office, but I took care that she should not see me. I did not wish
to be seen, though precisely why I could not have explained even to
myself. The memory of that night in the rain, and of our meetings in the
grove, troubled me because I could not keep them from my mind. They kept
recurring, no matter what I did or where I went. No, I did not want
to meet her again. Somehow, the sight and memory of her made me more
dissatisfied and discontented than ever. I found myself moodily
wishing for things beyond my reach, longing to be something more than I
was--more than the nobody which I knew I must always be. I remembered my
feelings on the morning of the day when I first saw her. Now they seemed
almost like premonitions.

I kept away; not only from her, but from George Taylor and Captain
Dean and the townspeople. I went to the village scarcely at all. Sim
Eldredge, who had evidently