“Now, my dear Ruth,” said Mrs. Nelson, in genuine alarm, “don’t be sentimental, I beg of you.  When once you make your debut, you’ll feel very different about things.  Of course the place must be sold:  it can’t be rented, and I’m sure you will never get me to spend another summer in Clayton.  You could not stay here alone.”

Ruth sat with her chin in her hands and gazed absently out of the window.  She remembered when that yard was to her as the garden of Eden.  As a child she had been brought here, a delicate, faded little hot-house plant, and for three wonderful years had been allowed to grow and blossom at will in the freedom of outdoor life.  The glamour of those old days still clung to the place, and made her love everything connected with it.  The front gate, with its wide white posts, still held the records of her growth, for each year her grandfather had stood her against it and marked her progress.  The huge green tub holding the crape myrtle was once a park where she and Annette had played dolls, and once it had served as a burying-ground when Carter’s sling brought down a sparrow.  The ice house, with its steep roof, recalled a thrilling tobogganing experience when she was six.  Grandfather had laughed over the torn gown, and bade her do it again.

It was the trees, though, that she loved best of all; for they were friendly old poplar-trees on which the bark formed itself into all sorts of curious eyes.  One was a wicked old stepfather eye with a heavy lid; she remembered how she used to tiptoe past it and pretend to be afraid.  Beyond, by the arbor, were two smaller trees, where a coquettish eye on one looked up to an adoring eye on the other.  She had often built a romance about them as she watched them peeping at each other through the leaves.

Down behind the house the waving fields of blue-grass rippled away to the little river, where weeping willows hung their heads above the lazy water, and ferns reached up the banks to catch the flowers.  And the fields and the river and the house and the trees were hers,—­hers and Carter’s,—­and neither could sell without the consent of the other.  She took a deep breath of satisfaction.  The prospect of living alone in the old homestead failed to appal her.

“A letter came this morning,” said Mrs. Nelson, tracing the crest on the silver creamer.  “It’s from your Aunt Elizabeth.  She wants us to spend ten days with her at the shore.  They have taken a handsome cottage next to the Warrentons.  You remember young Mr. Warrenton, Ruth?  He is a grandson of Commodore Warrenton.”

“Warrenton?  Oh, yes, I do remember him—­the one that didn’t have any neck.”

Mrs. Nelson closed her eyes for a moment, as if praying for patience; then she went on:  “Your Aunt Elizabeth thinks, as I do, that it is absurd for you to bury yourself down here.  She wants you to meet people of your own class.  Do you think you can be ready to start on Wednesday?”