"But truth is truth, child," said Aunt Betsy.

Aunt Betsy's intensely realistic temperament could not understand that
fine, exquisite perception God had given the little girl, which enabled
her to see beauty that others, differently organized, would never see,
nor, believe was there.

The house, where four generations of Mrs. Marsden's family had lived, was
home-like, but quaint and unpretentious. It had a very solid look and was
in thorough repair, for the family were thrifty and well-to-do always.
Luxuriant vines of the Virginia creeper grew on the sides of the house and
around the pillars of the porches. Wandering tendrils hung from the eaves
and crept in the second-story windows. There was a wild-brier rose there
that had been planted by Mrs. Marsden's grandmother. It partook somewhat
of the nature of the old lady; nothing could keep it from doing its duty.
It filled the air with fragrance in its season, and was a mass of delicate
pink flower cups.

Inside of the old house were many little nooks, and each nook haunted by
the spirit of some legendary story. As is the case in all houses where
successive generations of the same family have lived and died, ghostly
visitants came at certain times, so the negroes said, rang bells softly at
dead of night, tipped across the floor with but the echo of a step,
jostled medicine bottles together and did many curious things. Roberta,
brave as she was and sensible as she was, would actually cover up her head
with the bedclothes, and nearly smother for fear she would hear the bells
and ghostly steps.

Mam' Sara was the only one of the negroes who didn't believe in ghosts.
"No, indeed, honey," she would say to Roberta, "daid fo'ks don' never cum