She thought that she was young, and that the world was old: that rain belonged to youth. Old age should sit in the sun, but youth was best of all in bad weather. "There's no telling where you are in the rain. And there's no one spying, for every one's indoors, keeping dry." Yes, youth is quite a person in the rain. With slim, lazy fingers, she began to braid her long, fair hair. It seemed to her that folks were always peering and prying, to make sure that every one else was like themselves. "You're doing different than what I did," they said. Anna wanted to "do different." Yet she was without courage or wisdom. And because she was sulky and heedless, Mrs. Ploughman called her Sara Barly's rebellious daughter. As Mrs. Ploughman belonged to the Methodist side of the town, Mrs. Tomkins was usually ready to disagree with her. But on this occasion, all Mrs. Tomkins could think to say, was: "Well, that's queer." "But what's she got to be rebellious over?" she asked, peering brightly at Mrs. Ploughman. "Perhaps," said Mrs. Ploughman, "she's sorry she wasn't born a boy." "Well," cried Mrs. Tomkins, "I never heard of such a thing." "There's lots you never heard of, Mrs. Tomkins," said Mrs. Ploughman. "And plenty I never hope to hear," said Mrs. Tomkins promptly. "My life!" After breakfast, Anna helped her mother with the housework. She took a hand in making the beds, and put her own room in order by tumbling everything into the closet and shutting the door. Then she went into the kitchen to help with the lunch. When Mrs. Barly saw her dreaming over the carrots, she asked: "What are you gaping at now?" "Nothing." Then Mrs. Barly grew vexed. "You're not feeble-minded, I hope," she said. "No, I'm not," said Anna. "I'm glad of that," said Mrs. Barly. When Anna said that she was not thinking of anything, she believed that she was telling the truth. But as a matter of fact, she was thinking of Thomas Frye. She wanted him to be in love with her, although she said to herself: "I am not in love with any one." Sometimes she thought that her heart was buried in France, with Noel Ploughman. However, she was mistaken. The tear she dropped in secret over his death, was for her own youth, out of her timid, clumsy, sweet-and-sour feelings. In the afternoon she went for a walk. The rain, starting again after breakfast, had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, the air damp and searching. From the trees overhead as she passed, icy drops rained down upon her; she felt the silence all about her, and saw, from the rises, the gray hills, the rolling mist, and the low clouds, trailing above the woods, now light, now dark.