“She hates us because Grandfather sold his farm, or lost it somehow,” Theodosia said as they drove down the avenue toward the road. “She hates us because she’ll have to will us her land. We’re the only natural heirs she’s got. She hates to have to will us her property.” Returning along the road the girls filled the buggy with dogwood boughs, and they sang to remove the memory of the dismal hour of the farm, alto and soprano, running from one ditty to another, while the horse jogged up the pike toward the town. The rolling hills were fresh with spring, were sweetly curved with the tender new growth, and sweet again with the scent of herbs and dew. At the creek crossing the horse craved a drink, and Theodosia loosened the check-rein and let the beast step aside into the pool, gay over the act and eager to dispel the malice of the old hour. The weathered limestone of the creek bottom lay crumpled and fluted, a mass of tightly welded shells from some old ocean bed. The stream had cut a wide valley for its use, had set the hills far back as it had chosen other beds in which to wander in other ages. The horse supped his drink from off the fluted rocks, and when he had got his fill, alto and soprano flowing anew around some sentimental air, they would jog higher up the broad valley and thus come home again to the town. * * * * * The young men, Conway Brooke and Albert Stiles, would come to Theodosia’s house singly or together. Coming together, they would beg her to play for them or they would bring sweets to eat. Conway calling alone would talk of himself, sitting happily in the dim light of the parlor and enjoying his heightened self, his ease, his good looks, Theodosia’s beauty, all the delights of remembered being. Albert coming alone would grow heavily reminiscent, self-appraising, romantic, planning his future, laying his plans before her, eager for acquiescence. He was broad and strong, filling his chair with his man’s frame. Another, Frank Railey, would stop casually on his way up or down the street, or he would take her to row on the pool beyond the town. He would bring his books to read portions aloud, bits of essay he admired, or verse from his favorite poets. He had studied law and was establishing himself in practice in the courts of equity. Persevering and conscientious, seeking to enrich his experience, he would seek talk with Anthony Bell, bringing up old matters and trying to pry open the shut past, but this past was strange to him in its coloring, its iridescences which had long since been lost from recorded history, and these discussions would fall apart and leave old Anthony wrathful, gesticulating, straining to regain his composure. Theodosia often forgot engagements with Frank and was then put to elaborate pains to escape rudeness. When he faded down the vista of the street, going toward the town, he evaporated entirely, and she had no picture of where he went or of what he might do there.