Linda and Fred had carried Josephine's crib late every night, and
where sheet music had cascaded from the upright piano. She saw,
with the young husband and wife, a fiery, tumblehead girl of
fifteen or sixteen, who helped with her sister's cooking and
housework, who adored the baby, who planned a future on the stage,
or as a great painter, or as a great writer--the means mattered
not so that the end was fame and wealth and happiness for Harriet.

Fred had brought Royal Blondin in to supper one night, and Royal
had laughed with the others at the spirited little waitress who
delivered herself of tremendous decisions while she came and went
with plates, and forgot to take off her checked blue apron when
she finally slipped into her place.

The man had been a derelict then, as now. But he was nine years
older than Harriet Field. He had had the same delightful voice,
the same penetrating eyes. He had brought poetry, music, art, into
the sordid little parlour of the Watertown apartment; he had
helped Harriet to tame and house those soaring ambitions. Seated
on Linda's stiff little fringed sofa, they had drunk deep of Keats
and Shelley and Browning, and Harriet's eyes had widened at what
Royal called "world ethics." To live--that was the gift of the
gods! Not to be afraid--not to be bound!

Reaching this point in her recollections, the girl recalled
herself with a start. She was safe in luxurious Crownlands, it had
all been years ago. But again the abyss seemed to yawn at her
feet. She felt again those kisses that had waked the little-girl
heart into passionate womanhood; she shut her eyes and pressed her
hand tight against them. So young--so happy--so confident!--