pasture back of her house? Bord was slumped down, as usual, in one of those old office arm chairs, with his pipe in his mouth, and apparently reading the paper. But when she announced that she thought that snow-shoe tracks on freshly fallen snow were as pretty as lace, he looked just sick! He glanced up a moment, caught me looking at him, and gave me a big, slow wink."
"Oh, Nina makes me tired," took up Fairlee Ormsbee, "depositing her invalids on us! Why, when I saw this Edna Miller two years ago, it was at a hotel, and she was done up in a pink worsted shawl and was being wheeled around in a chair by a trained nurse. If she had any sense at all, she'd know she would be out of place here."
But Fairlee Ormsbee had not seen what hopes and aspirations had been concealed beneath that pink worsted shawl. Always, as Edna Miller had been convalescing from her various operations, bolstered up in bed by her window, or half-reclined in a rocking-chair on a hotel veranda, it was the passing girl with the tennis racket, or golf clubs—low-heeled, white-footed, lean, sleek, tanned and weathered—the girl who could sail a boat, ride a horse, run a car, whom Edna envied, and longed in the secret of her heart to become.
There was a dream that sometimes visited her in her deep sleep which intoxicated her for days
