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practiced her scales as faithfully as if she liked it.
    â€œSuch a pity you are not fonder of music,” said grandmother. “But of course, how could you be?”
    It was not so much what grandmother said as how she said it. She made wounds that rankled and festered. And Jane was fond of music…she loved to listen to it. When Mr. Ransome, the musical boarder at 58, played on his violin in his room in the evenings, he never dreamed of the two enraptured listeners he had in the backyard cherry tree. Jane and Jody sat there, their hands clasped, their hearts filled with some nameless ecstasy. When winter came and the bedroom window was shut, Jane felt the loss keenly. The moon was her only escape then, and she slipped away to it oftener than ever, in long visitations of silence which grandmother called “sulks.”
    â€œShe has a very sulky disposition,” said grandmother.
    â€œOh, I don’t think so,” faltered mother. The only times she ever dared to contradict grandmother were in defense of Jane. “She’s just rather…sensitive.”
    â€œSensitive!” Grandmother laughed. Grandmother did not often laugh, which Jane thought was just as well. As for Aunt Gertrude, if she had ever laughed or jested it must have been so long ago that nobody remembered it. Mother laughed when people were about…little tinkling laughs that Jane could never feel were real. No, there was not much real laughter at 60 Gay, though Jane, with her concealed gift for seeing the funny side of things, could have filled even that big house with laughter. But Jane had known very early that grandmother resented laughter. Even Mary and Frank had to giggle very discreetly in the kitchen.
    Jane had shot up appallingly in that year. She was rather more angular and awkward. Her chin was square and cleft.
    â€œIt gets more like his every day,” she once heard grandmother saying bitterly to Aunt Gertrude. Jane winced. In her bitter new wisdom she suspected that “his” was her father’s chin, and she straightway detested hers. Why couldn’t it have been a pretty rounded one like mother’s?
    The year was very uneventful. Jane would have called it monotonous if she had not as yet been unacquainted with the word. There were only three things in it that made much impression on her…the incident of the kitten, the mysterious affair of Kenneth Howard’s picture, and the unlucky recitation.
    Jane had picked the kitten up on the street. One afternoon Frank had been in a big hurry to get somewhere on time for grandmother and mother and he had let Jane walk home from the beginning of Gay Street when he was bringing her from St. Agatha’s. Jane walked along happily, savoring this rare moment of independence. It was very seldom she was allowed to walk anywhere alone…to walk anywhere at all, indeed. And Jane loved walking. She would have liked to walk to and from St. Agatha’s or, since that really was too far, she would have liked to go by street-car. Jane loved traveling on a street car. It was so fascinating to look at the people in it and speculate about them. Who was that lady with the lovely shimmering hair? What was the angry old woman muttering to herself about? Did that little boy like having his mother clean his face with her handkerchief in public? Did that jolly looking little girl have trouble getting her grade? Did that man have toothache and did he ever look pleasant when he hadn’t it? She would have liked to know all about them and sympathize or rejoice as occasion required. But it was very seldom any resident of 60 Gay had a chance to go on a street-car. There was always Frank with the limousine.
    Jane walked slowly to prolong the pleasure. It was a cold day in late autumn. It had been miserly of its light from the beginning, with a dim ghost of sun peering through the dull gray clouds, and now it was getting dark and spitting snow. The lights gleamed out: