It was like the andante of the Kreutzer.
"I knew what Mother wanted, to get over being angry with Cousin
Parnelia. And she was. I could see it in her face, like somebody in
church. I felt it myself--all over, like an E string that's been
pulled too high, slipping down into tune when you turn the peg. But
I didn't _want_ to feel it. I _wanted_ to hate Cousin Parnelia. I
thought it was awfully hard in Mother not to want us to have even the
satisfaction of hating Cousin Parnelia! I tried to go on doing it.
I remember I cried a little. But Mother never said a word--just
sat there in that quiet autumn sunshine, watching the leaves
falling--falling--and I had to do as she did. And by and by I felt,
just as she did, that Cousin Parnelia was only a very small part of
something very big.
"When we went in, Mother's face was just as it always was, and we got
Cousin Parnelia a cup of tea and gave her part of a boiled ham to
take home and a dozen eggs and a loaf of graham bread, just as though
nothing had happened."
She stopped speaking. There was no sound at all but the delicate,
forlorn whisper of the leaves.
"That is a very fine story!" said Page finally. He spoke with a
measured, emphatic, almost solemn accent.
"Yes, it's a very fine story," murmured Sylvia a little wistfully.
"It's finer as a story than it was as real life. It was years before I
could look at blue corduroy without feeling stirred up.
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