and all that sort of thing. They don't know that I am sitting up here in
this pear-tree, lonesome enough to die. Oh, if I could only go back home
and see them for even five minutes," she sobbed, "but I can't! I can't!
There's a whole wide ocean between us!"

She shut her eyes, and leaned back against the tree as that desolate
feeling of homesickness settled over her like a great miserable ache.
Then she found that shutting her eyes, and thinking very hard about the
little brown house at home, seemed to bring it into plain sight. It was
like opening a book, and seeing picture after picture as she turned
the pages.

There they were in the kitchen, washing dishes, she and Mary; and Mary
was standing on a soap-box to make her tall enough to handle the dishes
easily. How her funny little braid of yellow hair bobbed up and down as
she worked, and how her dear little freckled face beamed, as they told
stories to each other to make the work seem easier.

Mary's stories all began the same way: "If I had a witch with a wand,
this is what we would do." The witch with a wand had come to Joyce in
the shape of Cousin Kate Ware, and that coming was one of the pictures
that Joyce could see now, as she thought about it with her eyes closed.

There was Holland swinging on the gate, waiting for her to come home
from school, and trying to tell her by excited gestures, long before she
was within speaking distance, that some one was in the parlor. The baby
had on his best plaid kilt and new tie, and the tired little mother was
sitting talking in the parlor, an unusual thing for her. Joyce could see
herself going up the path, swinging her sun-bonnet by the strings and
taking hurried little bites of a big June apple in order to finish it