Julie, pretty, excitable, and sixteen, had an occasional dose of stage
fever, and would stammer desperately between convulsive sobs that she
wasn't half as much afraid of "the terrible temptations of the life"
as she was afraid of dying a poky old maid in Weston. In short, the
home was crowded, the Pagets were poor, and every one of the seven
possessed a spirited and distinct entity. All the mother's effort
could not keep them always contented. Growing ambitions made the Weston
horizon seem narrow and mean, and the young eyes that could not see
beyond to-morrow were often wet with rebellious tears.

Through it all they loved each other; sometimes whole weeks went by in
utter harmony; the children contented over "Parches" on the hearthrug
in the winter evenings, Julie singing in the morning sunlight, as
she filled the vases from the shabby marguerite bushes on the lawn.
But there were other times when to the dreamy, studious Margaret the
home circle seemed all discord, all ugly dinginess and thread-bareness;
the struggle for ease and beauty and refinement seemed hopeless
and overwhelming. In these times she would find herself staring
thoughtfully at her mother's face, bent over the mending basket, or
her eyes would leave the chessboard that held her father's attention
so closely, and move from his bald spot, with its encircling crown of
fluffy gray, to his rosy face, with its kind, intent blue eyes and the
little lines about his mouth that his moustache didn't hide,--with a
half-formed question in her heart. What hadn't they done, these
dearest people, to be always struggling, always tired, always "behind
the game"? Why should they be eternally harassed by plumbers' bills,
and dentists' bills, and shoes that would wear out, and school-books
that must be bought? Why weren't they holding their place in Weston
society, the place to which they were entitled by right of the Quincy
grandfather, and the uncles who were judges?