ation is a classic
on this important subject. Mrs. Owen still retained the active control
of her affairs, though she had gradually given over to a superintendent
much of the work long done by herself; but woe unto him who ever tried
to deceive her! She maintained an office on the ground floor of her
house where she transacted business and kept inventories of every stick
of wood, every bushel of corn, every litter of pigs to which she had
ever been entitled. For years she had spent much time at her farms,
particularly through the open months of the year when farm tasks are
most urgent; but as her indulgence in masculine pursuits had not abated
her womanly fastidiousness, she carried with her in all her journeys a
negro woman whose business it was to cook for her mistress and otherwise
care for her comfort. She had acquired the farm in Kentucky to continue
her ties with the state of her birth, but this sentimental consideration
did not deter her from making the Lexington farm pay; Sally Owen made
everything pay! Her Southern ancestry was manifest in nothing more
strikingly than in her treatment of the blacks she had always had about
her. She called them niggers--as only a Southerner may, and they called
her "Mis' Sally" and were her most devoted and obedient servants.

Much of this Sylvia was to learn later; but just now, as Mrs. Owen sat
in the cool window-seat, it was enough for Sylvia to be there, in the
company of the first woman--so it seemed to her--she had ever known,
except Irish Mary at home. The wives of the professors in Buckeye Lane
were not like this; no one was ever like this, she was sure!

"We shall be having luncheon at half-past twelve, and my grandniece
Marian will be here. Marian is the daughter of my niece, Mrs. Morton
Bassett, who lives at Fraserville. Marian comes to town pretty often and
I've asked her down to-day particularly to meet you."

"I'm sure that is very kind," murmured Sylvia, though she would have
been perfectly happy if just she and her grandfather had been left alone
with Mrs. Owen.

"There's the bell; that must be Marian now," said Mrs. Owen a moment
later, and vanished in her quick fashion. Then the door opened again
instantly and she returned to the room smiling.

"What _is_ your name, dear?" Mrs. Owen demanded. "How very stupid of me
not to have asked before! Your grandpa in speaking of you always says my
granddaughter, and that doesn't tell anything, does it?"

"My name is