soldier, musket on shoulder, marched along the river-edge: the cape of his
coat fluttered in the breeze and his slanting bayonet shone like silver.
Before them lay D----, the smoke from its mills and houses curling into
the pale blue air.

The countess drew a long breath: she had a keen feeling for beauty. "Yes,
it is a lovely place," she said. "The hills are not high enough, but the
river makes amends for everything. But what are those hideous shanties,
Therese?"

"Are they not hideous?" said Mrs. Greymer. "They are all pine, and it gets
such an ugly dirt-black when it isn't painted. The glass is broken out of
the windows and the shingles have peeled off the roofs. When it rains the
water drips through. In spring, when the river rises, it comes up to their
very doors: one spring it came in. It is not a nice place to live in."

"Not exactly: still, I suppose people do live there."

"Yes, the Baileys live there. You see, the rent is low."

The countess lifted her eyebrows and followed Mrs. Greymer without
answering. Some sulky-looking men were smoking pipes on the doorsteps, and
a few women, whose only Sunday adorning seemed to have been plastering
their hair down over their cheeks with a great deal of water, gossiped at
the corner. Half a dozen children were playing on the river-bank.

"They fall in every little while," Therese explained, "they are so small,
and most of the mothers here go out washing. This is the Baileys'."

William Bailey answered the knock. He was a tall man, who carried his
large frame with a kind of muscular ease. He had a square, gray-whiskered
face with firm jaws and mild light-blue eyes. The hair being worn away
from his forehead made it seem higher than it really was. He wore his
working clothes and a pair of very old boots cut down into slippers. The
only stocking he had was in his hand, and he appeared to have been darning
it. Close behind him came his wife, holding the baby. The bright look of
recognition on her face at the sight of Mrs. Greymer faded when she
perceived the countess. Rather stiffly she invited them to enter.

The room was small and most meanly furnished, but it was clean. The walls
were dingy beyond the power of soap and water to change, but the floor had
been scrubbed, and what glass there was in the windows had been washed.
There were occasional holes in the ceiling and walls where the plaster had
given way: out of one of these peered the pointed nose and gleaming e