May was cautious and timid in the presence of her grandmother. There was something obscure and remote about the old woman's engrossed face, her squinting eyes that gazed at one as from an infinitely projected distance, her puckered lips with their self-righteous twist. May smiled helplessly, not knowing how to reply. "I suppose Mrs. Julia is bringing you up to have the wider interests she talks about when she is here. You want to vote, I suppose, don't you?" Mrs. Farley squinted a smile. Her humor had an acrid flavor. May giggled apologetically. "I don't think I care much about voting, Grandmother. I don't think Aunt Julia is trying to make me like anything in particular." "I'm making bread. Your grandfather has to have his bread just right," Mrs. Farley said. She went into the kitchen. May hesitated, then followed her. The clean room was full of sunlight. Mrs. Farley took down the bread pans and began to work the stiff dough on a floured board. Her knotted fingers sank tremulously into the bulging white stuff. The dough made a snapping noise when she turned it and patted it. "I suppose it would be a waste of time for you to learn to make bread, May." Behind the old lady the stove was dazzling black with its brilliant nickel ornaments. The tin flour sifter on the table beside her was filled with fiery reflections. The stiff white muslin curtains before the open windows made lisping, scraping noises as the wind folded them over and brushed them along the lifted panes. Mrs. Farley glanced from time to time at May, and, with dim hostility, noted the slight angular little figure seated so ill-at-ease on the rush-bottomed chair, the darkened eyes with their chronic expression of melancholy and elation, the heavy braid of flaxen hair that hung with a curious soft weight between the small stooping shoulders. Mrs. Farley found May's continual smile, her sweet relaxed lips and the large uneven white teeth that showed between, peculiarly irritating. "You want another cake, eh?" she flung out at last with an amused resigned air. Going back into the dining room, she brought a cake and presented it as though she were feeding a hungry puppy. May, trying to be grateful, munched the cake uncomfortably. She pulled feebly at the hem of her skirt. Her grandmother made her ashamed of her legs. Grandpapa Farley came up the walk and halted in the back doorway, bareheaded in the warm sunshine. He was in his shirt sleeves. Beads of perspiration stood on his high blank brow which might have been called noble. His big hands, smeared with the earth of the garden, hung in a helpless manner at his sides. He smiled uncomfortably at May. "Shall we send your step-mother some lettuce?"