sanctum had developed like an exquisite flower, and had become, as
we have said, an expression of herself. An auctioneer, in dismantling
her apartment, would not have found much more to sell than if he had
pulled a rose to pieces, but left intact it was as full of beauty
and fragrance as the flower itself. And yet her own hands must destroy
it, and in a brief time she must exchange its airy loveliness for
a bare room in a farmhouse. After that the future was as vague
as it was clouded. The pretty trifles were taken down and packed
away, with tears, as if she were laying them in graves.




CHAPTER V

THE RUDIMENTS OF A MAN


"Mother, I hain't no unison with it at all," said Farmer Atwood,
leaning on the breakfast table and holding aloft a knife and
fork--formidable implements in his hands, but now unemployed through
perturbation of mind. "I hain't no unison with it--this havin'
fine city folk right in the family. 'Twill be pretty nigh as bad
as visiting one's rich relations. I had a week of that once, but,
thank the Lord, I hain't been so afflicted since. I've seen 'em
up at the hotel and riding by too often not to know 'em. They are
half conceit and half fine feathers, and that doesn't leave many
qualities as are suited to a farmhouse. Roger and me will have to
be--what was it that lecturin' professor called it--'deodorized'
every mornin' after feedin' and cleanin' the critters. We'll