of race, unchanged by time and environment. Liv-
ing in a house lighted by electricity, the mental con-
ception of it was to the Trumbulls as the conception
of candles; with telephones at hand, they uncon-
sciously still conceived of messages delivered with
the old saying, "Ride, ride," etc., and relays of
post-horses. They locked their doors, but still had
latch-strings in mind. Johnny's father was a phy-
sician, adopting modern methods of surgery and pre-
scription, yet his mind harked back to cupping and
calomel, and now and then he swerved aside from
his path across the field of the present into the future
and plunged headlong, as if for fresh air, into the
traditional past, and often with brilliant results.

Johnny's mother was a college graduate. She was
the president of the woman's club. She read papers
savoring of such feminine leaps ahead that they
were like gymnastics, but she walked homeward
with the gait of her great-grandmother, and inwardly
regarded her husband as her lord and master. She
minced genteelly, lifting her quite fashionable skirts
high above very slender ankles, which were heredi-
tary. Not a woman of her race had ever gone home
on thick ankles, and they had all gone home. They
had all been at home, even if abroad -- at home in
the truest sense. At the club, reading her inflam-
matory paper, Cora Trumbull's real self remained
at home intent upon her mending, her dusting, her
house economics. It was something remarkably