It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. “You could have told me about it, Michelle. The softly glittering summer stars! She saw them shining over mountains of snow, over valleys of haze and warm darkness. ’ ‘You would speak of the house?’ ‘Many’s the time little Miss Mary would say her papa meant for her to have it, she having no brothers and sisters at all—when we played together I mean, she and me and Joan Pottiswick. In their happiest times, he was the most faithful and devoted of husbands.
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