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Jane Lavinia only knew that she must–she could not help it. There was something in her that demanded expression thus.

When Mr. Stephens, who was a well-known artist and magazine illustrator, came to Chestercote because his wife’s father, Nathan Whittaker, was ill, Jane Lavinia’s heart had bounded with a shy hope. She indulged in some harmless manoeuvring which, with the aid of good-natured Mrs. Whittaker, was crowned with success. One day, when Mr. Whittaker was getting better, Mr. Stephens had asked her to show him some of her work. Jane Lavinia, wearing the despised sailor hat, had gone over to the Whittaker place with some of her best sketches. She came home again feeling as if all the world and herself were transfigured.

She looked out from the window of her little room with great dreamy brown eyes, seeing through the fir boughs the golden western sky beyond, serving as a canvas whereon her fancy painted glittering visions of her future. She would go to New York–and study–and work, oh, so hard–and go abroad–and work harder–and win success–and be great and admired and famous–if only Aunt Rebecca–ah! if only Aunt Rebecca! Jane Lavinia sighed. There was spring in the world and spring in Jane Lavinia’s heart; but a chill came with the thought of Aunt Rebecca, who considered tidies and afghans nicer than her pictures.

“But I’m going, anyway,” said Jane Lavinia decidedly. “If Aunt Rebecca won’t give me the money, I’ll find some other way. I’m not afraid of any amount of work. After what Mr. Stephens said, I believe I could work twenty hours out of the twenty-four. I’d be content to live on a crust and sleep in a garret–yes, and wear sailor hats with stiff bows and blue roses the year round.”

Jane Lavinia sighed in luxurious renunciation. Oh, it was good to be alive–to be a girl of seventeen, with wonderful ambitions and all the world before her! The years of the future sparkled and gleamed alluringly. Jane Lavinia, with her head on the window sill, looked out into the sunset splendour and dreamed.

Athwart her dreams, rending in twain their frail, rose-tinted fabric, came Aunt Rebecca’s voice from the kitchen below, “Jane Lavinia! Jane Lavinia! Ain’t you going for the cows tonight?”

Jane Lavinia started up guiltily; she had forgotten all about the cows. She slipped off her muslin dress and hurried into her print; but with all her haste it took time, and Aunt Rebecca was grimmer than ever when Jane Lavinia ran downstairs.

“It’ll be dark before we get the cows milked. I s’pose you’ve been day-dreaming again up there. I do wish, Jane Lavinia, that you had more sense.”

Jane Lavinia made no response. At any other time she would have gone out with a lump in her throat; but now, after what Mr. Stephens had said, Aunt Rebecca’s words had no power to hurt her.

“After milking I’ll ask her about it,” she said to herself, as she went blithely down the sloping yard, across the little mossy bridge over the brook, and up the lane on the hill beyond, where the ferns grew thickly and the grass was beset with tiny blue-eyes like purple stars. The air was moist and sweet. At the top of the lane a wild plum tree hung out its branches of feathery bloom against the crimson sky. Jane Lavinia lingered, in spite of Aunt Rebecca’s hurry, to look at it. It satisfied her artistic instinct and made her glad to be alive in the world where wild plums blossomed against springtime skies. The pleasure of it went with her through the pasture and back to the milking yard; and stayed with her while she helped Aunt Rebecca milk the cows.

When the milk was strained into the creamers down at the spring, and the pails washed and set in a shining row on their bench, Jane Lavinia tried to summon up her courage to speak to Aunt Rebecca. They were out on the back verandah; the spring twilight was purpling down over the woods and fields; down in the swamp the frogs were singing a silvery, haunting chorus; a little baby moon was floating in the clear sky above the white-blossoming orchard on the slope.