Lovely women were lighting lamps and drawing shades or meeting the masculine population at front gates with babies in their arms or beau-catcher curls set on their cheeks with deadly intent.  Negro cooks were hustling suppers on their smoking stoves, and one of the doves that lives up in the vines under the eaves of my home moaned out and was answered by one from under the vines that grow over the gables at the Crittendens’.  I haven’t felt as lonesome as all that since the first week of Sam’s freshman year at college.  As I looked across the lilac hedge, which was just beginning to show a green sap tint along its gray branches, I seemed to see my poor little blue-ginghamed, pigtailed self crouched at Judge Crittenden’s feet on the front steps, sobbing my lonely heart away while he smoked his sorrow down with a long brier pipe, and the Byrd chirped his little three-year-old protest in concert with us both.  Most eighteen-year-old men would have resented having a motherless little brother and a long-legged girl neighbor eternally at their heels, but Sam never had; or, if he did, he gently kicked the Byrd and me out of the way, and we never knew that was what he was doing.  We even loved him for the kicks.  Then as the tears misted across my eyes a woman with a baby in her arms came out and called in two children who were playing under the old willow-tree over by the side gate—­the willow that had belonged to Sam and me—­and my eyes dried themselves with indignant astonishment.

“Who are those people over at the Crittendens’, mother?” I asked, in a stern voice, as I walked in and interrupted mother counting the fifteenth row on a lace mat she was making.

“Why, the Burtons bought the place from Sam after the judge’s death.  Don’t you remember I wrote you about it, Betty dear?” she answered, with the gentle placidity with which she has always met all my tragic moments.  Mother raised seven boys before she produced me, and her capacity for any sort of responsive excitement gave out long before I needed it.  After her sons a woman seems to consider a daughter just a tame edition of a child.  Mother has calmly crocheted herself through every soul-storm I have ever had, and she is the most dear and irresponsible parent an executive girl would wish to have leave her affairs alone.  As for daddy, he has always smiled and beckoned me away from her into a corner and given me what I was making a stand for.  My father loves me with such confidence that he pays no attention to me whatever except when he thinks it is about time for him to write my name on a check.  His phosphate deals have made him rich in an un-Hayesboro-like way, and all the boys are in business for him in different states, except the oldest one, who is Congressman from this district, and one other who is in a Chicago bank.  Yes, I know I have the most satisfactorily aloof family in the wide world.  I can just go on feeding on their love and depend upon them not to interfere with any of my plans for living life.  However, if anything happens to me I can be sure that their love will spring up and growl.