daughter was not sad, though she'd been his only close companion and had
loved him tenderly. And this brought a guilty feeling now, which she
fought down by telling herself there had been little sadness in his
death. She pictured her father making his speech at the unveiling of
the Monument. How happy and proud he had appeared. For half his life
old Colonel Knight had exhorted his fellow townsmen and painted dark the
shame of their town: "The only county seat in Ohio with no soldiers'
monument, sir!" He had held countless meetings, he had gone begging to
his neighbours, and every dollar he himself could save had gone into
that dream of his. At last he had triumphed; and after all the
excitement of his final victory, the old soldier had made his speech,
and died.

Around him and the monument and the old frame house on River Street, the
lazy, shallow river, the high school near the court house, Demley's
Tavern across the square, the line of shops on either side, the new
"movie" theatre of pink tile, and the old yellow church on the
corner--the pictures of her life trooped by, the pictures of her last
few years--with the miracle, the discovery that she herself, Ethel
Knight, who had always been considered "plain," was slowly now
developing into a beautiful woman. That brought memories which
thrilled--various faces of men, young and old, looks and glances, words
overheard, and countless small attentions. But these came in mere
fragments, rising only to be whirled back again into the past, as the
train sped on toward the city.

She was going to live in New York with her married sister, Amy Lanier.
And from looking out of the car window, Ethel would turn quickly, throw
a swift glance at her sister and smile. Amy seemed quite wonderful--Amy
with her elegance, her worldly assurance, her smiling good-humour and