of orange-colored pumpkins on the back porch of almost every house she passed, mounds of discarded apples beneath the bared branches of the orchards, Indian wigwams in place of the waving cornfields.
Ten minutes later, walking along the main street of the town, beneath the tawny elm trees, Sheilah stopped several times to speak to neighbors whom she met (this was her second autumn in Terry, Vermont), passing on each time with a deepening smile. Little sounds beneath a tree, simple sights along a road-way, homely expressions of friendliness from neighbors, all gave pleasure to Sheilah now.
She turned in at a gateway half a dozen houses beyond the first elm tree of the long colonnade, and approached a house painted ginger-snap brown of ugly, nondescript architecture. It had a steep A roof facing the street, a front door off the center, and a bay-window beside the front door. Sheilah saw only the glorious garland of scarlet woodbine festooned over the front door as she walked up the path.
'I'm home, Mother,' she called cheerfully up the front stairs as she shoved open the front door.
She laid down her autumn leaves for a moment on one of the morris-chairs crowded into the sitting-room at the left of the door (there were six morris-chairs in all dispersed through the brown house. Felix's mother had had a fancy for morris-chairs),
