the two or three days that followed her strange
conversation with Mrs. Talcott, felt that while she pitied and cared for
Mrs. Talcott as she had never yet pitied and cared for her, she was also
afraid of her. Mrs. Talcott had spoken no further word and her eyes
rested on her with no more than their customary steadiness; but Karen
knew that there were many words she could speak. What were they? What
was it that Mrs. Talcott knew? What secrets were they that she carried
about in her lonely, ancient heart?

Mrs. Talcott loomed before her like a veiled figure of destiny bearing
an urn within which lay the ashes of dead hopes. Mrs. Talcott's eyes
looked at her above the urn. It was always with them. When they gardened
together it was as if Mrs. Talcott set it down on the ground between
them and as if she took it up again with a sigh of fatigue--it was
heavy--when they turned to go. Karen felt herself tremble as she
scrutinized the funereal shape. There was no refuge with Mrs. Talcott.
Mrs. Talcott holding her urn was worse than the lonely fears.

And, for those two or three days of balmy, melancholy spring, the lonely
fears did not press so closely. They wheeled far away against the blue.
Tante was kinder to her and was more aware of her. She almost seemed a
little ashamed of the scene with the piano. She spoke to Karen of it,
flushing a little, explaining that she had slept badly and that Karen's
rendering of the Bach had made her nervous, emphasizing, too, the rule,
new in its explicitness, that the grand piano was only to be played on
by Karen when it was left open. "You did not understand. But it is well
to understand rules, is it not, my child?" said Madame von Marwitz. "And
this one, I know, you will not transgress again."

Karen said that she understood. She had something of her rocky manner in
receiving these implicit apologies and commands, yet her guardian could
see an almost sick relief rising in her jaded young eyes.

Other things were different. Tante seemed now to wish very constantly to
have her there when Mr. Drew was with her. She made much of her to Mr.
Drew. She called his attention to her skill in gardening, to her
directness of speech, to her individuality of taste in dress. These
expositions made Karen uncomfortable, yet they seemed an expression of
Tante's desire to make amends. And Mr. Drew, with his vague,
impenetrable regard, helped her to bear them. It was as if, a clumsy
child, she were continu