It was a blowy afternoon early in October, and Pauline was sitting by the window of what at Wychford Rectory was still called the nursery. The persistence of the old name might almost be taken as symbolic of the way in which time had glided by that house unrecognized, for here were Monica, Margaret, and Pauline grown up before any one had thought of changing its name even to school-room. And with the old name it had preserved the character childhood had lent it. There was not a chair that did not appear now like the veteran survivor of childish wars and misappropriations, nor any table nor cupboard that did not testify to an affectionate ill-treatment prolonged over many years. On the walls the paper which had once been vivid in its expression of primitive gaiety was now faded; but the pattern of berries, birds, and daisies still displayed that eternally unexplored tangle as freshly as once it was displayed for childish fancies of adventure. Pauline had always loved the window-seat, and from here she had always seen before any one else at the Rectory the first flash of Spring's azure eyes, the first graying of Winter's locks. So now on this afternoon she could see the bullying southwest wind thunderous against whatever laggards of Summer still tried to shelter themselves in the Rectory garden. Occasionally a few raindrops seemed to effect a frantic escape from the fierce assault and cling desperately to the window-panes, but since nobody could call it a really wet day Pauline had been protesting all the afternoon against her sisters' unwillingness to go out. Staying indoors was such a surrender to the season. "We ought to practise that Mendelssohn trio," Monica argued. "I hate Mendelssohn," Pauline retorted. "Well, I shall practise the piano part." "Oh, Monica, it will sound so dreadfully empty," cried Pauline. "Won't it, Margaret?" "I'm reading _Mansfield Park_. Don't talk," Margaret murmured. "If I could write like Jane Austen," she went on, dreamily, "I should be the happiest person in the world." "Oh, but you are the happiest person already," said Pauline. "At least you ought to be, if you'd only...." "You know I hate you to talk about him," Margaret interrupted.