"Nella-Rose," he said one day as he smoked reflectively and listened to
his younger daughter singing a camp meeting hymn in a peculiarly sweet
little voice, "when my ship comes in, honey, I'm going to buy you a
harp. A gold one."

"I'd rather have a pink frock, father, and a real hat; I just naturally
hate sunbonnets! I'd favour a feather on my hat--flowers fade right
easy."

"But harps is mighty elegant, Nella-Rose. Time was when your--aunts
and--and grandmothers took to harps like they was their daily
nourishment. Don't you ever forget that, Nella-Rose. Harps in families
mean _blood_, and blood don't run out if you're careful of it."

Nella-Rose laughed, but Marg, in the wash-house beyond, listened
and--hated!

No one connected _her_ with harps or blood, but she held, in her sullen
heart and soul, the true elements of all that had gone into the making
of the best Greysons. And as the winter advanced, Marg, worn in mind and
body, was brought face to face with stern reality. Autumn was
gone--though the languorous hours belied it. She must prepare. So she
gathered her forces--her garden products that could be exchanged for
necessities; the pork; the wool; all, all that could be spared, she must
set in circulation. So she counted three dozen eggs and weighed ten
pounds of pork and called Nella-Rose, who was driving her mad by singing
and romping outside the kitchen door.

"You--Nella-Rose!" she called, "are you plumb crazy?"