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“What are these?”
    “Pieces of statuary.”
    “Who wants pictures of statues? Stick to drawing people.”
    “If only we could! But first you need to learn from ideal shapes; all the schools teach that way. And besides, nobody can afford to pay models for beginners.”
    “So I should be charging you?”
    “I’ll pay you with a better sketch if you like.”
    Mrs. Hendrick laughed. “Papa’s granddaughter, I see—not too much the aesthete to drive a bargain. Another time.”
    *   *   *
    The rest of the morning was spent in needlework. After lunch, Mrs. Hendrick installed herself and Jeanette downstairs in the library to be ready for Mrs. Palmer. Cousin Effie would be out for the afternoon. No one had thought twice about sending her to Poughkeepsie for Jeanette, but Mr. Hendrick would do the honors himself for his sister-in-law.
    “Is there anything else I can do, Maude?” asked Cousin Effie, as she pulled on gloves. “I’m not sure I should leave.”
    “So you have said a hundred times, and for the hundredth time I repeat: I am quite capable of receiving Sarah Palmer in my own house by myself. If Sarah asks, we’ll tell her the weekly meeting of the Children’s Aid Society would falter without you. Run along.
    “Here, read this to me.” Mrs. Hendrick handed Jeanette
David Copperfield
, open to the chapter in which Steerforth’s perfidious abandonment of Little Em’ly is revealed. Her heavy face maintained a placid absorption while she continued her morning’s embroidery, only occasionally stealing a sly glance at her niece.
    Jeanette took the point of the selection, but her increasing anxiety as they waited had nothing to do with Aunt Maude’s estimation of her or her worries about Abigail’s fate and everything to do with her mother’s attitude. At last, the front doorbell rang, followed by indistinct voices in the entry hall.
    “Aunt Maude, they’re here!”
    “Then what are you waiting for? Go greet your mother.”
    Jeanette ran. Because she had stayed East during the Christmas holidays, it had been nearly six months since she had last seen either one of her parents. Coming into the drawing room from the back of the house just as her mother entered from the front, she was struck hard by the fatigue in her mother’s face. A corner of her mind noted also how dumpy her mother was, how provincially dressed; yet Sarah Palmer was formidable, too, in her dignified self-possession. When their eyes met, a questioning look crossed Mrs. Palmer’s face, but her brow eased as if she were satisfied. At that signal, Jeanette ran forward, threw her arms around her mother, and broke into sobs. Mrs. Palmer clasped her briefly and rubbed her back, then pushed her away, holding her at arm’s length.
    “Oh, Mama!”
    “Now, now,” exclaimed Uncle Matthew, rubbing his hands energetically. “No tears in this house, no tears! Never allowed from my girls, you know. I like to see smiles on pretty faces.”
    “Don’t cry, Jeanette,” said Mrs. Palmer, quietly. “What’s done is done, and we’ll talk about it later. Right now, I must greet your aunt Maude.”
    So there it was. Appearances, even within the family, were what mattered. After hours of anxious waiting, to have her drama simply pushed aside hurt; but Jeanette resigned herself to the role of a child for the time being, to be seen and not heard.
    When at last they were upstairs alone, Sarah Palmer lowered herself slowly onto her bedroom’s one armchair and propped her elbows on the armrests. Leaning back wearily, she pressed her fingertips together in front of her chest and looked at Jeanette. “Well?”
    Jeanette’s unhappiness flooded up again, hotly. “Oh, Mama, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry it’s all turned out this way. Really I am!”
    “I’m glad to hear it.”
    Mrs. Palmer’s coolness was another slap, but not unexpected. Jeanette perched on the edge of the bed and tried to be equally cool. “What is it you want from me,