the more her way was crossed, and her will thwarted, the greater would be the triumph of her resignation. She must remember that. She must hold it before her like a light. It was weak and ignoble to beat oneself against circumstances. Back and forth her thoughts swung on the little perch. "Suppress, accept, submit," it squeaked.
Reba wished that she might reason with her physical feelings, too. For sometimes it seemed to her as if she must actually have swallowed the retorts she didn't make, the protests she restrained, and that her stomach rebelled. Such a wave of nausea now possessed her. But you wouldn't have guessed it. She rocked gently, her open palms relaxed, upturned. Whatever combat there was, should be inside, hidden. She waited patiently for the nausea to pass away, and when it had, she sat a long while, rocking there by the window, hugging her victory close for comfort, staring out at the pretty lights of the town.
Reba was glad that her grandfather had built his house upon a hill. She could see not only the stars in the sky, but those in the valley too. From her high lookout every light in every window in the valley made a star for Reba. Somebody had told her once, when she was a little girl, eight years old or so, that the stars in the sky were other worlds. Well, so were the stars in the valley—other worlds, other little worlds, and at dusk she used to make-believe that the souls of the little worlds came stealing shyly out, one after another to meet each other under the cover of night. She liked to watch them assembling, for even though the house she lived in did not join the others (Aunt Augusta always drew the shades down just as
