HILDEGARDE had always known that her mother was different from the others, but she had not known why. She had thought it might be because, before her father died, her mother had had an easy time. And Aunt Catherine and Aunt Olivia had never had an easy time. They had worked hard, as girls, on the farm, and they worked hard now. Aunt Olivia, to be sure, had been married, but she had worked hard for her husband, and when he left her a widow, she made her home with Aunt Catherine and kept on working.
At first, they had all done woman's work, but when the war came on, with labor scarce, the three sisters toiled out of doors, sowing, planting, hoeing, weeding. None of them liked it except Hildegarde's mother. She had explained it to Hildegarde:
"When I plant a seed, I feel that it is an act of creation, as if I had painted a picture or had written a poem—and I love the smell of the fresh earth, with everything bursting into beauty."
Hildegarde's mother had never talked like that to Aunt Catherine and Aunt Olivia. She had kept such thoughts for her child. Now that she was dead, Hildegarde dared not think of the things her mother
