, under the gray,
pitiless sky. I read Byron, which was the only book in the house,
I believe; for neither Charles nor Alice read anything except the
newspapers. I looked over my small stores also, and my papers, which
consisted of father's letters. As I was sorting them the thought
struck me of writing to Veronica, and I arranged my portfolio, pulled
the table nearer the fire, and began, "Dear Veronica." After writing
this a few times I gave it up, cut off the "Dear Veronicas," and made
lamplighters of the paper.

Ben Somers called at noon, to inquire the reason of my absence from
school, and left a book for me. It was the poems he had spoken of.
I lighted on "Fatima," read it and copied it. In the afternoon Alice
came up with the baby.

"Let me braid your hair," she said, "in a different fashion."

I assented; the baby was bestowed on a rug, and a chair was put before
the glass, that I might witness the operation.

"What magnificent hair!" she said, as she unrolled it. "It is a yard
long."

"It is a regular mane, isn't it?"

She began combing it; the baby crawled under the bed, and coming out
with the handkerchief in its hand, crept up to her, trying to make her
take it. She had combed my hair over my face, but I saw it.

"Do I hurt you, Cass?"

"No, do I ever hurt you, Alice?" And I divided the long bands over my
eyes, and looked up at her.

"Were any of your family ever cracked? I have long suspected you of a
disposition that way."

"The child is choking itself with that handkerchief."

She took it, and, tossing it on the bed, gave Byron to the child to
play with, and went on with the hair-dressing.

"There, now," she said, "is not this a masterpiece of barber's craft?
Look at the back of your head, and then come down."

"Yes, I will, for I feel better."

When I returned to my room again it was like meeting a confidential
friend.

A few days after, father came to Rosville. I invited Ben Somers and
Helen to spend with us the only evening he stayed. After they were
gone, we sat in my room and talked over many matters. His spirits were
not as buoyant as usual, and I felt an undefinable anxiety which I did
not mention. When he said that mother was more abstracted than
ever, he sighed. I asked him how many years he thought I must waste;
eighteen had already gone for nothing.

"You must go in the way ordained, waste or no waste. I have tried to
make your life differ from mine at the same age, for you