rustling tent of a lilac bush there were three or four clay pots
filled with dry earth. There was a railed porch on the east side
of the house, with vines climbing on strings about it, and here
the old woman, clean with the wonderful, cool-fingered cleanness
of frail yet energetic seventy-five, would sit reading in the
afternoon shade that fell from the great shoulders of the blue
mountains.

Inside were three rooms; there was no bathroom, no light but the
kerosene lamps the old hands tended daily, no warmth but the small
kitchen stove. All the furniture was old and shabby and cheap, and
the antimacassars and pictures and teacups old Mrs. Mumford prized
so dearly were of no value except for association's sake.
Rachael's great-grandmother lived upon tea and toast and fruit
sauce; sometimes she picked a dish of peas in her own garden and
sometimes made herself a rice pudding, but if her children brought
her in a chicken or a bowl of soup she always gave it away to some
poorer neighbor who was ill, or who was "nursing that great
strapping baby."

She read the Bible to Rachael and exhorted the half-believing,
half-ashamed child to lay its lessons to heart.

"Your life will be full of change and of pleasure, there will be
many temptations and much responsibility," said the sweet, stern,
thin old voice. "Arm yourself against the wickedness of the
world!"

Rachael, pulling the old collie's silky ears, thought nothing of
the wickedness of the world but much of possible change and