was demanded of her by the gazing ranks, asked me if I didn't think Shakespeare was "nice." I wonder if Ethelwyn thinks Shakespeare nice! I wonder
I was interrupted by Mrs. Bassett, who came shivering into the room on the edge of the bitter wind like a tiny dry leaf, her little, old face full of laughter. I've wondered sometimes how old she is; I know how young—she is born anew with every day. She possesses the finest genius in the world—that of living joyously; lover of her kind though she is, she is yet her own most intimate comrade, and life is never dull to her, for she herself creates events.
She settled down into her favorite chair—she has one in every room in the house—and told me of her latest experience, which concerned a certain popular idol who has just tumbled from his pedestal, and by his fall uncomfortably jostled the emotions of the public. I knew that Mrs. Bassett, who is a born hero-worshipper, had his picture tacked up in her little sewing-room, and I had been curious to know what she would do with it.
"Yes," she said, smiling radiantly across at me, "I wouldn't give in for a long time. I've found it doesn't do to believe newspapers too soon. Seems sometimes as if there's one thing people like better than stickin' folks up on pinnacles, and that's pullin' 'em down. And come to, like as not 'twas all jest a newspaper story, anyhow, so I waited. But when all the papers fell into line I began to think the time had come to up and do something, so when father came home last night I said to him, 'Father, you jest take that picture down from the sitting-room door, will you, please?' so father, he took it down and brought it to me. I was jest gettin' supper; I'd been frying doughnuts and the fat had spattered a little mite. That give me my opportunity. I jest scrumpled up that picture and blanched the stove with it! It came into my mind all in a flash that that would relieve my feelings. It did too—I felt real refreshed after I'd done it. Father, he stood and laughed at me, but I didn't care for that. Women are made different from men—that's what 'tis: now that we don't believe in witches no more, I dunno but I approve of stickin' pins in dolls—'twould save a whole lot of feelings from turning round an' stickin' into you!"
I am impressed with her resolution—it seems as if it ought to work in the case of Ethelwyn—only I can't quite make the application. There is a stiffness of temper about a cabinet photograph that unfits it for the ideal stove-polisher. Besides, I am ashamed of my weakness, but I might as well confess that such heroic measures are beyond me. I'd defy anyone to clean a stove with a portrait of Ethelwyn!
Three days more of freedom—only three days! I want to walk and walk! I'd like to lose my way over the hills and not come home till June! And by an irony of fate, the whole world is thawing and
