In the world of the actual, Jennie was such a spirit. From her earliest youth goodness and mercy had molded her every impulse. Did Sebastian fall and injure himself, it was she who struggled with straining anxiety, carried him safely to his mother. Did George complain that he was hungry, she gave him all of her bread. Many were the hours in which she had rocked her younger brothers and sisters to sleep, singing whole-heartedly betimes and dreaming far dreams. Since her earliest walking period she had been as the right hand of her mother. What scrubbing, baking, errand-running, and nursing there had been to do she did. No one had ever heard her rudely complain, though she often thought of the hardness of her lot. She knew that there were other girls whose lives were infinitely freer and fuller, but, it never occurred to her to be meanly envious; her heart might be lonely, but her lips continued to sing. When the days were fair she looked out of her kitchen window and longed to go where the meadows were. Nature’s fine curves and shadows touched her as a song itself. There were times when she had gone with George and the others, leading them away to where a patch of hickory-trees flourished, because there were open fields, with shade for comfort and a brook of living water. No artist in the formulating of conceptions, her soul still responded to these things, and every sound and every sigh were welcome to her because of their beauty. When the soft, low call or the wood-doves, those spirits of the summer, came out of the distance, she would incline her head and listen, the whole spiritual quality of it dropping like silver bubbles into her own great heart. Where the sunlight was warm and the shadows flecked with its splendid radiance she delighted to wonder at the pattern of it, to walk where it was most golden, and follow with instinctive appreciation the holy corridors of the trees. Color was not lost upon her. That wonderful radiance which fills the western sky at evening touched and unburdened her heart. “I wonder,” she said once with girlish simplicity, “how it would feel to float away off there among those clouds.” She had discovered a natural swing of a wild grape-vine, and was sitting in it with Martha and George. “Oh, wouldn’t it be nice if you had a boat up there,” said George. She was looking with uplifted face at a far-off cloud, a red island in a sea of silver. “Just supposing,” she said, “people could live on an island like that.” Her soul was already up there, and its elysian paths knew the lightness of her feet. “There goes a bee,” said George, noting a bumbler winging by. “Yes,” she said, dreamily, “it’s going home.” “Does everything have a home?” asked Martha. “Nearly everything,” she answered. “Do the birds go home?” questioned George. “Yes,” she said, deeply feeling the poetry of it herself, “the birds go home.” “Do the bees go home?” urged Martha. “Yes, the bees go home.”