She missed the rattle and noise of New York. It was a little too
tranquil in Fort Greene Place; yet, when she listened intently,
through the city's old-fashioned hush, very far away the voices of
the great seaport were always audible--a ceaseless harmony of river
whistles, ferry-boats signalling on the East River, ferry-boats on
the North River, perhaps some mellow, resonant blast from the bay,
where an ocean liner was heading for the Narrows. Always the
street's stillness held that singing murmur, vibrant with deep
undertones from dock and river and the outer sea.

Strange spicy odours, too, sometimes floated inland from the sugar
wharves, miles away under the Heights, to mingle with the scent of
lilac and iris in quiet, sunny backyards where whitewashed fences
reflected the mid-day glare, and cats dozed in strategical
positions on grape trellis and tin roofs of extensions, prepared
for war or peace, as are all cats always, at all times.


"Celia!"

Celia Craig looked up tranquilly.

"Has anybody darned Paige's stockings?"

"No, she hasn't, Honey-bell. Paige and Marye must keep their
stockings da'ned. I never could do anything fo' myse'f, and I
won't have my daughters brought up he'pless."

Ailsa glanced humorously across at her sister-in-law.