a home is that which is too elusive, too subtile to remain
under any of these heads, and this indefinite something attracted and
touched Nannie to-day. Fog and mist, cloud and rain had softened the
soil into which these seeds fell. Pain is a strong note in the prelude
to life.

It was characteristic of Nannie's crude resentful type of pride that
she prolonged her stay at Constance's, even though she realized she
was unwelcome. She would not allow any one the satisfaction of seeing
that she felt hurt.

As far as possible, Randolph tried to atone for his wife's lack of
cordiality, and in pursuance of this aim he made an essential point of
taking Nannie around the little place and showing her the latest
arrivals in the vegetable line. He had considerable to show, for his
tiny plantation was a model of thrift and comeliness. Many varieties
of vegetables were holding out their succulent wares, all ready for
table use, and many more were absorbing sunshine and balmy air in
preparation for future calls. Near the house cheery and fragrant
flowers gladdened the pretty beds in which no weed was allowed to rear
its vicious crest. There was, it is true, one ugly, uncivilized
portion of the place, in which the primitive, the barbaric reigned
supreme. As yet Randolph had not found time to attack this spot and
bring it within the pale of garden orthodoxy. Secretly he had for a
time been hoping that Constance would take it in hand, although he
would have been ashamed to let her know he dreamed of this. Certainly
he would have been shocked at the idea of setting her at any such
task, but he would as certainly have winked at her own voluntary
performance of it. To be entirely frank, he had a little scene all
ready in his imagination, in which this unsightly corner was found
clothed and in its right mind--the noxious weeds having been cast out
by Constance's gentle hands. In this delightful scene Constance always
stood by smiling in a deprecatory way, and he was always gently
upbraiding her--"Now, Constance! Why, this is shameful! The idea of
your doing such a thing! It wasn't right of you! You must promise me
you will never, never do anything of this sort again!" and so forth,
and so on.

But alas! this scene, like many another, remained in the author's
possession, Constance giving no occasion to act it out, but going
circumspectly and quietly on her way, ignorant of this delightful
little fancy of her husband's. Just now she was bu