In the meantime a kindly old lady, whose eyes were fixed on the brunette, noticed how hard she was listening, noticed the fresh expectancy in her parted lips and clear brown eyes, and asked with a touch of sadness: 

“I wonder what’s waiting for you in New York?  I’m afraid I don’t like this companion of yours.  And you’re so very young, my dear, and eager and gay.  And you are to be so beautiful.”

And while all these conjectures were being made about them both, the brunette was wrapt in her own inner fancies, vivid and exciting.  Listening to her sister, swift thoughts and expectations mingled with the memories of the life behind her.  As she stared out of the window, fields and woods and houses kept whirling back out of her view—­and so it was with her memories.  It was hard to keep hold of any one.

She had lived with her father, a lonely old man in a small, quiet town in Ohio, down in the lower part of the State.  He was dead, and she was going to live with her married sister in New York.  He was dead and his daughter was not sad, though she’d been his only close companion and had loved him tenderly.  And this brought a guilty feeling now, which she fought down by telling herself there had been little sadness in his death.  She pictured her father making his speech at the unveiling of the Monument.  How happy and proud he had appeared.  For half his life old Colonel Knight had exhorted his fellow townsmen and painted dark the shame of their town:  “The only county seat in Ohio with no soldiers’ monument, sir!” He had held countless meetings, he had gone begging to his neighbours, and every dollar he himself could save had gone into that dream of his.  At last he had triumphed; and after all the excitement of his final victory, the old soldier had made his speech, and died.

Around him and the monument and the old frame house on River Street, the lazy, shallow river, the high school near the court house, Demley’s Tavern across the square, the line of shops on either side, the new “movie” theatre of pink tile, and the old yellow church on the corner—­the pictures of her life trooped by, the pictures of her last few years—­with the miracle, the discovery that she herself, Ethel Knight, who had always been considered “plain,” was slowly now developing into a beautiful woman.  That brought memories which thrilled—­various faces of men, young and old, looks and glances, words overheard, and countless small attentions.  But these came in mere fragments, rising only to be whirled back again into the past, as the train sped on toward the city.

She was going to live in New York with her married sister, Amy Lanier.  And from looking out of the car window, Ethel would turn quickly, throw a swift glance at her sister and smile.  Amy seemed quite wonderful—­Amy with her elegance, her worldly assurance, her smiling good-humour and knowledge of “life,” her apparent content, her sense of well being, of being a joy to look at and love; Amy who had an adoring husband, Amy who spent money like water, Amy with dash and beauty and style.