th in Boston and
meet the whole family. I was sick with dread. I begged Tom to tell me
some of the things I should and should not do.

"Be your own sweet self and they 'll love you," he promised, kissing me.
He meant it, dear soul; but I knew better.

From the very first minute, Tom's Aunt Elizabeth made me conscious of
her disapproval. In after years I won the old lady's affection and real
respect, but I never spent a completely happy hour in her presence.

The night we arrived she gave me a formal dinner. Some dozen additional
guests dropped in later, and I was bewildered by new faces and strange
names. Later in the evening I noticed a distinguished-looking
middle-aged gentleman standing alone just outside the drawing-room door.
Hurrying out, I invited him to come in. He inquired courteously if
there was anything he could do for me.

"Yes, indeed," I assured him. "Come in and talk to me." He looked shy
and surprised. I insisted. Then Tom's aunt called me and, drawing me
hastily into a corner, demanded why I was inviting a servant into her
drawing-room.

"Servant! He looks like a senator," I protested. "He's dressed exactly
like every other man at the party and he looks twice as important as
most of them."

"Didn't you notice he addressed you as 'Madam'?" pursued Aunt Elizabeth.

"But it 's perfectly proper to call a married woman 'Madam.'
Foreigners always do," I defended.

"Can't you tell a servant when you see one?" inquired the old lady
icily.

I begged to know how one could. All Boston was summed up in her answer:
"You are supposed to know the other people."

Tom's wife could have drowned in a thimble.

The third day of our visit, we were at the dinner table, when I saw Aunt
Elizabeth's face change--for the worse. Her head went up higher and her
upper lip drew longer. Finally she turned to me.

"Why do you cut your meat like a dog's dinner?" she snapped.

Tom's protesting exclamation did not stop her.

I laid my knife and fork on my plate and folded my hands in my lap to
hide their trembling.

Time may dim many hurts, but with the last flicker of intelligence I
shall remember that scene. Even then, in a flash, I saw the symbolism
of it.

On one side--rare mahogany, shining silver, deft servants, napkins to
rumple, leisure for the niceties of life. On the other hand--a log
cabin, my tired mother with new babies always coming, father slaving to
homestead a claim and push civili