PERCY JOHNSTON stood waiting on the broad veranda of an old-style
Southern home, on a bright November day in 1903. He had just come
from Blue Mound Station, three miles away, with suit-case in hand.

"Would it be possible for me to secure room and board here for a few
days?" he inquired of the elderly woman who answered his knock.

"Would it be possible?" she repeated, apparently asking herself the
question, while she scanned the face of her visitor with kindly eyes
that seemed to look beneath the surface.

"I beg your pardon, my name is Johnston,--Percy Johnston--" he said
with some embarrassment and hesitation, realizing from her speech
and manner that he was not addressing a servant.

"No pardon is needed for that name," she interrupted; "Johnston is a
name we're mighty proud of here in the South."

"But I am from the West," he said.

"We're proud of the West, too; and you should feel right welcome
here, for this is 'Westover,'" waving her hand toward the inroad
fields surrounding the old mansion house. "I am Mrs. West, or at
least I used to be. Perhaps the title better belongs to my son's
wife at the present time; while I am mother, grandma, and
great-grandmother.