Hildegarde. It isn't fashionable to talk about them. But I'll tell you this, that Elizabeth Musgrove found more beauty here on this old farm than Sally Hulburt will find in the whole of Winslow's house."
Crashing words! But with tonic in them. She found herself faltering an apology. "Of course, I don't approve of Sally, nor of the things that Daddy did. But mother forgave him, why shouldn't I?"
"Forgive him if you like—but don't talk of loveliness."
"Crispin, you know this farm is—unspeakable."
"Yes. I don't want you to live here—ever. But I know that nothing any Carew can ever do will match the life your mother made for herself. And for you. It was astounding that amid such surroundings she could hold herself above it all and make her child so sweet."
His voice broke on that. "Oh, Hildegarde, I'm not quarreling with you because you don't like all this. I am quarreling with you because you don't know yourself."
"Perhaps I do know myself."
"No. When the big thing comes, you'll meet it. And you won't meet it in your father's way, but your mother's. You are her child, Hildegarde."
In the momentary silence which followed, a light wind went whispering about them. Was Elizabeth there? Elizabeth Musgrove? In the purple dark?
Crispin's hand found Hildegarde's. "I have something for you."
"What?"
