Love was something entirely different; as different as poetry from prose; as different as dreams from reality. It even turned prose into poetry and reality into dreams. It glorified everything like spring. It made flowers grow beneath her feet; made the birds break forth into song when she walked abroad; it deepened the blue of the sky and burnished the gold of the sun; it put her in touch everywhere with the beautiful. It even brought out the beauty in her own face and figure. Roxie was not vain, although she knew well enough she compared favorably with other girls in the village. But lately, when standing before the mirror while doing her hair for the night, she had looked at herself a little more critically. And with a thrill of pride she had not discovered much with which to find fault. Her light hair was long and silken and responded with an added sheen to the careful combing she now gave it. Her blue eyes stared back at her with a new light which quickened them. Her skin was clear and though slightly more tanned than Miss Wilmer’s had a creamy bloom the latter lacked. Her nose and mouth and chin were not much and yet not badly modeled. Her teeth were large and not as pearly white as Miss Wilmer’s, but they were strong and, ever since the teacher at school had taught her to use a toothbrush, had improved. Her body was lithe and firm, but she did not think much about that. Except, she could not help but notice, she looked her best when in her long white night-robe which gave her full freedom and revealed the fine curves of her neck and her slight, rounded arms. She blushed even as she noted this and was glad enough to blow out her lamp and shelter herself in the dark. She awoke every morning as fresh and clear-visioned as the dawn. She awoke with the physical vigor of a young animal ready to frolic and with her eyes wide open. She dressed as quickly as a boy and went down to her tasks with a song in her heart. For she was kindling the morning fire, not for Miss Wilmer, but for Allston. She threw open windows to let in the cool, fragrant new air, not for her mistress, but for him. For him she started the kettle to boiling and for him mixed her batter for hot bread. This was his house. He was the host and the others guests. At odd times he stepped into the kitchen to say Hello. That was something to look forward to and later to remember. She made it a point always to be wearing a clean gingham apron. “Do you know,” he said to her, dropping in just before supper, “you look as though you grew in the field like the daisies and some one plucked you fresh every day. You sure that isn’t true?” She shook her head. “Flowers are pretty, but they don’t last long,” she said. “And yet they are everywhere. They were even in France--on the battle-fields.”