"Miss Massey's coming down the path," she cried.

They all crowded to the window. Miss Massey, looking up, waved her hand
gaily, and the children delightedly waved back.

"Oh, Miss Massey, we're all ready for you," Maizie exclaimed at once as
Miss Massey entered.

"Lovely," Miss Massey returned. Glancing casually at her, she appeared
young, yet looking closely it might be seen that her first youth was
over. She was perhaps in her middle thirties. Her hair beneath the
simple blue chip hat, had gray strands. There was a hesitating quality
about her, as though she had never done so daring a thing as reach a
decision; a wavering, indefinite figure, with a wistfulness, a soft
appeal, quite charming. That she had never come in contact with
realities showed in the wide innocence of the childlike eyes; the
sometime trembling of the lips as when a thought as now engendered by
the Procter home and its humbleness, its lack of many real comforts,
forced its way into the untouched depths of her mind.

She was the only child of old John Massey. He was a large figure in the
small town, and one not cordially admired. He was masterful, choleric,
some claimed, unjust. Owner of the steel mill which stood just outside
of the town limits, the employer of hundreds of men, he had failed to
gain the esteem of one human being. Fear, for many depended upon him for
their livelihood, was the emotion he most inspired.

Fairfax Massey, his daughter, inspired a deep sympathy, perhaps because
her leading characteristic was a pitiable holding to her ideals. She
painted her father as a good and loving man hiding his real tenderness