professional man." It was proper that she should "be well cared for."
She moved by her well-chosen phrases; they were like rules set in a
copybook for her guidance.

Kate seemed to see a moving-picture show of her mother's days. Now she
was pouring the coffee from the urn, seasoning it scrupulously to suit
her lord and master, now arranging the flowers, now feeding the
goldfish; now polishing the glass with tissue paper. Then she answered
the telephone for her husband, the doctor,--answered the door, too,
sometimes. She received calls and paid them, read the ladies' magazines,
and knew all about what was "fitting for a lady." Of course, she had her
prejudices. She couldn't endure Oriental rugs, and didn't believe that
smuggling was wrong; at least, not when done by the people one knew and
when the things smuggled were pretty.

Kate, who had the spirit of the liberal comedian, smiled many times
remembering these things. Then she sighed, for she realized that her
ability to see these whimsicalities meant that she and her mother were,
after all, creatures of diverse training and thought.



II

What! Silver tree? She hadn't realized how the time had been flying. But
there was the sawmill. She could hear the whir and buzz! And there was
the old livery-stable, and the place where farm implements were sold,
and the little harness shop jammed in between;--and there, to convince
her no mistake had been made, was the lozenge of grass with "Silvertree"
on it in white stones. Then, in a second, the station appeared with the