he Cedar Tree.

Day by day, Fanny threw off somewhat of the homesickness which had
weighted her at coming. Not by any determined effort of the will, nor
by any resolve to make the best of things. Outside influences meeting
half-way the workings of unconscious inward forces, were the agents
that by degrees were gently ridding her of the acute pressure of
dissatisfaction, which up to the present, she had stolidly borne
without any personal effort to cast it off.

Therese affected her forcibly. This woman so wholesome, so fair and
strong; so un-American as to be not ashamed to show tenderness and
sympathy with eye and lip, moved Fanny like a new and pleasing
experience. When Therese touched her caressingly, or gently stroked
her limp hand, she started guiltily, and looked furtively around to
make sure that none had witnessed an exhibition of tenderness that
made her flush, and the first time found her unresponsive. A second
time, she awkwardly returned the hand pressure, and later, these
mildly sensuous exchanges prefaced the outpouring of all Fanny's woes,
great and small.

"I don't say that I always done what was right, Mrs. Laferm, but I
guess David's told you just what suited him about me. You got to
remember there's always two sides to a story."

She had been to the poultry yard with Therese, who had introduced her
to its feathery tenants, making her acquainted with stately Brahmas
and sleek Plymouth-Rocks and hardy little "Creole chickens"--not much
to look at, but very palatable when converted into _fricassee_.

Returning, they seated themselves on the bench that encircled a
massive cedar--spreading and conical. Hector, who had trotted
attendance upon them during their visit of inspection, cast himself
heavily down at his mistress' feet and after glancing knowingly up
into her face, looked placidly forth at Sampson, gathering garden
greens on the other side of a low dividing fence.

"You see if David'd always been like he is now, I don't know but
things'd been different. Do you suppose he ever went any wheres with
me, or even so much as talked to me when he came home? There was
always that everlasting newspaper in his pocket, and he'd haul it out
the first thing. Then I used to read the paper too sometimes, and when
I'd go to talk to him about what I read, he'd never even looked at the
same things. Goodness knows what he read in the paper, I never could
find out; but here'd be the edges all covered over wit