Beth remembered that it was Monday morning and that Aunt Rebecca and Ella Lowndes had deep-seated objections to bad weather on washing day, “because it made the whole week crooked.” She hoped that the sun was shining in Massachusetts, and her heart leaped joyously as she realized that she was in fairy-land-come-true, where there were no washing days with their hurried, light dinners, but where the sun always shone, no matter what was the weather. Her feet in their fleecy blue slippers danced a few steps until the lavish blue satin bows on the slippers waved blithely, and she hurried to begin dressing, meaning to surprise Frieda when she came by being nearly ready. There was to be a holiday from lessons for the Cortlandt children because it was Thanksgiving week. Alys said “that was a good way to make sure they were thankful.” After breakfast Beth found herself alone, and she wandered into the conservatory. Entering it was to leave November far behind, to breathe the warm, soft dampness of the southern midsummer. Beth closed the door behind her and stood still, delicately and ecstatically sniffing the fragrant air. “It’s just like a hymn,” said Beth, folding her hands with a sense of reverence and lifting her happy little face higher as she spoke aloud after the fashion of her solitary play days. “It’s like: “‘What though the spicy breezes Blow soft o’er Ceylon’s isle, Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile’-- Mercy, no! It isn’t like that last part one bit, for Uncle Jim isn’t any more vile than--than nothing at all--than those white carnations over there! I love him with all my heart and soul! I guess it’s more like: “‘And Sharon waves, in solemn praise Her silent groves of palm,’ because there are whole rows of palms over there. Well, at any rate, I just wish Janie Little could smell these flowers. Janie loves nice smells so! She thinks smelling a peppermint stick is ’most as good as sucking it. I don’t, but I’d rather smell all these flowers mixed up than pick them. And those birds! I wonder who feeds them.” “I do, my dear,” said a voice, and Beth faced about with a jump to see Mrs. Hodgman. “Do you take care of all of them? Good-morning, Mrs. Hodgman,” said Beth. The housekeeper laughed. “Good-morning, Beth,” she said. “I have one of the maids, or sometimes the gardener here to help me take down the cages, but I give the little creatures their baths and food--it’s such a pleasure to do it, and they all know me.” She whistled a low note and the canaries nearest her, of the fifty that hung in the conservatory, fluttered to the bars of their cages and answered her, with their heads inquiringly tilted to see what Mrs. Hodgman had for them.