At the State Fair every fall it was taken as a matter of course that “S.  Owen” (such was her business designation) should win more red ribbons than any other exhibitor either of cereals or live stock.  There was nothing that Sally Owen did not know about feeding cattle, and a paper she once read before the Short-Horn Breeders’ Association is a classic on this important subject.  Mrs. Owen still retained the active control of her affairs, though she had gradually given over to a superintendent much of the work long done by herself; but woe unto him who ever tried to deceive her!  She maintained an office on the ground floor of her house where she transacted business and kept inventories of every stick of wood, every bushel of corn, every litter of pigs to which she had ever been entitled.  For years she had spent much time at her farms, particularly through the open months of the year when farm tasks are most urgent; but as her indulgence in masculine pursuits had not abated her womanly fastidiousness, she carried with her in all her journeys a negro woman whose business it was to cook for her mistress and otherwise care for her comfort.  She had acquired the farm in Kentucky to continue her ties with the state of her birth, but this sentimental consideration did not deter her from making the Lexington farm pay; Sally Owen made everything pay!  Her Southern ancestry was manifest in nothing more strikingly than in her treatment of the blacks she had always had about her.  She called them niggers—­as only a Southerner may, and they called her “Mis’ Sally” and were her most devoted and obedient servants.

Much of this Sylvia was to learn later; but just now, as Mrs. Owen sat in the cool window-seat, it was enough for Sylvia to be there, in the company of the first woman—­so it seemed to her—­she had ever known, except Irish Mary at home.  The wives of the professors in Buckeye Lane were not like this; no one was ever like this, she was sure!

“We shall be having luncheon at half-past twelve, and my grandniece Marian will be here.  Marian is the daughter of my niece, Mrs. Morton Bassett, who lives at Fraserville.  Marian comes to town pretty often and I’ve asked her down to-day particularly to meet you.”

“I’m sure that is very kind,” murmured Sylvia, though she would have been perfectly happy if just she and her grandfather had been left alone with Mrs. Owen.

“There’s the bell; that must be Marian now,” said Mrs. Owen a moment later, and vanished in her quick fashion.  Then the door opened again instantly and she returned to the room smiling.

“What is your name, dear?” Mrs. Owen demanded.  “How very stupid of me not to have asked before!  Your grandpa in speaking of you always says my granddaughter, and that doesn’t tell anything, does it?”

“My name is Sylvia—­Sylvia Garrison.”

“And that’s a very nice name,” said Mrs. Owen, looking at her fixedly with her fine gray eyes.  “You’re the first Sylvia I have ever known.  I’m just plain Sally!” Then she seized Sylvia’s hands and drew her close and kissed her.