All hope was abandoned, presently, for herself, but surely the little Glen, transplanted so young, must be allowed to take root, to climb and cling, to bud and blossom in this rich soil! Childish friendships were her liveliest hope, and she talked down the doctor’s democracy and sent the child to a private school which had functioned since Civil War days. Nancy Carey, a beautiful, mildly amiable child who had nodded and smiled at Glen, attended Miss Josephine’s little seminary, and Effie built feverishly upon her favor. The Careys owned a cotton mill, and their shabby, stately ante-bellum mansion was her favorite of all the dwellings on The Hill. “Darling,” Effie urged her daughter, “you must be _very_ nice to that little girl!” “Why?” She was a downright child, with a measuring glance very like her father’s, for all her startling beauty. “Because--why, because she’s such a very _nice_ little girl, dearie, and Mama hopes you’ll be little chums. You might walk home with her after school, because the exercise is so good for you, and remember what your father says about holding your shoulders back and taking deep breaths. And if Nancy _should_ ask you to come in for a little while, why, Mama wouldn’t mind!” Mrs. Darrow’s valentine party for her daughter’s little schoolmates was a gallant but ghastly effort, seared into the child’s memory for all time. She always remembered her mother, hectic red spots on her cheekbones, breathing fast, cutting out fat red hearts and stringing them about the ugly room, making tiny heart-shaped cakes, slackly assisted by the yellow slattern Emma-_leen_. She had taken the place of the dusky servitor (adoring) who sang and toiled simultaneously in the long-dead northern vision. Emma-_leen_ sang even less than she toiled, and clearly scorned her timid mistress. The day was mild and fine. Birds perched on greening branches and butterflies balanced delicately on flowering shrubs: doors and windows were wide and there was the feel of spring in the house. They were ready early--Glen in a white dotted swiss with a blue sash and a blue bow in her flaming hair. Nobody came. Mrs. Darrow had felt it cannier not to send written invitations. The little girls were merely to trip home and say--“Glen Darrow wants me to come to a party this afternoon!”--and the little girls had doubtless carried out their part of the program perfectly. It was the mothers who had missed their cues. Lying long awake that night beside her placidly puffing spouse, Effie tortured herself with imagined dialogues---- “_Why, honey-lamb, yo’ don’t know that child!-- Well, suppose she does go to Miss Josephine’s--I don’t know her and I don’t know her mother and I don’t even know where she lives! No, yo’ just tell little what’s-her-name yo’ thank her just the same, but yo’ motha had otha plans fo’ yo’._” Not even Nancy Carey! She came as far as the front gate under convoy of a stiffly starched young negress, and called up regretfully: