out and walk and sit on the big piazzas, and dance, and eat at the
pretty little tables. She did, some, when we first came, and took
me, and I just loved it. They were such beautiful ladies, with their
bright eyes, and their red cheeks and jolly ways; and their dresses
were so perfectly lovely, all silks and satins and sparkly spangles,
and diamonds and rubies and emeralds, and silk stockings, and little
bits of gold and silver slippers.

And once I saw two of them smoking. They had the cutest little
cigarettes (Mother said they were) in gold holders, and I knew then
that I was seeing life--real life; not the stupid kind you get back in
a country town like Andersonville. And I said so to Mother; and I was
going to ask her if Boston was like that. But I didn't get the chance.
She jumped up so quick I thought something had hurt her, and cried,
"Good Heavens, Baby!" (How I hate to be called "Baby"!) Then she just
threw some money on to the table to pay the bill and hurried me away.

It was after that that she began to stay in her room so much, and not
take me anywhere except for walks at the other end of the town where
it was all quiet and stupid, and no music or lights, or anything. And
though I teased and teased to go back to the pretty, jolly places, she
wouldn't ever take me; not once.

Then by and by, one day, we met a little black-haired woman with white
cheeks and very big sad eyes. There weren't any spangly dresses and
gold slippers about _her_, I can tell you! She was crying on a bench
in the park, and Mother told me to stay back and watch the swans while
she went up and spoke to her. (Why do old folks always make us watch
swans or read books or look into store windows or run and play all
the time? Don't they suppose we understand perfectly well what it