One morning, when she had rocked one of the children to sleep, she sat with it in her arms, gazing out on the gloomy day with sad, set eyes. For the time being she lost all memory of the scene about her. The laughter of the children, the woman leaning over the bed, cutting small garments out of coarse cloth. She began to remember all that her grandfather had meant to her. She recalled his tenderness, the strong fortress of his great love built between the world and her. It had crumbled so slowly that she didn’t comprehend that it could ever wear quite away, until it had crumbled to the ground. True he was dead, but he had made a defense for her even beyond the gulf. Though stinted in many things, he had always held to his life insurance. The farm was worn out--the house old--it would bring little, but the two together would help her to maintain her independence until she could master her art. He did not know the years or the money that it required--he only felt that through the medium of her art she might hold some of the dignity of position to which she was entitled by right of birth. Knowing this, Esther yearned with her heart and soul to go forward. His lofty, beautiful character shone out before her mind without a flaw. The thought of again taking up the task alone was sweetened and ennobled by that memory. The woman glanced at Esther as she laid aside one pattern, put the pins in her mouth until she could place another. She was a saffron-faced, stoop-shouldered woman--one who prided herself on the drudgery she could do, who welcomed, rather than flinched from hardships. “What are you studyin’ about now?” Esther shuddered as she recalled the present. “You ain’t thinking about startin’ up that fiddlin’ again, are you?” the other stopped short to ask. A shadow crossed the girl’s face. “Jenny told me you had got it into your head to take lessons again from that old Dutchman at the college.” “I have been thinking about it,” Esther answered calmly. “Goodness knows I wouldn’t! I always thought the fiddle warn’t for anybody but men and niggers.” Her high-pitched voice was piercing. “Georgy got a juice harp somewhere, and I took it away from him and burnt the fetched thing up. I have always heard: ‘Let your children learn music if you want ’em to be no ’count.’” She stopped to get her breath. “Your cousin John thinks it’s an outrage--the idea of your taking lessons again. He knows nothing t’all about the man--but foreigners are a bad lot.” “Did cousin John tell you that he opposed the idea?” Esther interrupted her to ask. “He didn’t seem to take to it, any more than your trapsin’ over the woods by your lone self.” “Did he tell you he thought that was wrong?” “Well, not in so many words, but I can tell when a thing goes against the grain with him. He don’t like to hurt you. I tell him he thinks more of your feelings than your character. I just took it upon myself to tell you for your own good.”