I recalled that she had had a special gift of service for each of us, and began to see in that the secret of her power. Ben cared for nothing so much as to have his one pair of trousers pressed for Sunday morning, when overalls were cast aside and he arrayed himself for courtship. Serena, unfailingly in the old days, had made this her Saturday-night job. Len could strain contentedly through the longest day of work if Serena would sit down after supper to hear his tale of it, and his plan for to-morrow; and it was her habit to take her seat by his side as soon as he had left the table and cut off his “chaw” of tobacco. If the children washed the dishes, very well. If they didn’t, or wouldn’t, cleaning up was deferred until morning, without protest or friction. Lonie loved music, and Serena not only traded her pet pig for a banjo, she never interrupted her daughter’s strumming, giving it an importance above any urgency of the moment, such as bringing water when the kettle was sizzling dry, rescuing a line of clothes from an advancing shower, or pulling a toddler from the bank of the stream that ran through the yard. Such minor duties Serena unhesitatingly assumed if Lonie happened to be lolling on the bed, her eyes on the ceiling, and her banjo on her stomach, while she drew out the chords to accompany such highland classics as “Richard courted Mandy, And he come to court me. Boy, on your pallet There’s no room for three.” For her own pleasure, Serena demanded a neat appearance. Others might sling their rags and wear caked overalls, but a trim garb was her unquestioned privilege. Of late it seemed to me that the imp of untidiness had more than one finger upon her. That certainly meant unhappiness for herself. Then what did it indicate for the others? Their special right, too, was ignored, along with my fireplace. But what began to give me real anxiety was the change in Serena’s expression and bearing. She was showing a network of fine wrinkles on her forehead, and beginning to walk with a slight, straining stoop, akin to Len’s--a stoop that had begun to reproach me in my dreams. I was pondering all this one morning when I heard the chirp of Aunt Janey Stiles. “Why’n’t you go to preachin’ to-day? You’ve got a meetin’-house face on ye.” “Oh, Aunt Janey! Did you stay on the mountain last night?” “Yes, I wuz so tired when I pulled up from Beebread yisterday that I stopped at Reenie’s an’ slept there. I ain’t goin’ to do it agin though.” “What’s the matter, Aunt Janey?”