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supper. The sun had clouded over, and a dismal, drizzling rain was falling again. Cousin Stickles had the neuralgia. Valancy had to do the family darning and there was no time for Magic of Wings.
    â€œCan’t the darning wait till tomorrow?” she pleaded.
    â€œTomorrow will bring its own duties,” said Mrs. Frederick inexorably.
    Valancy darned all the evening and listened to Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles talking the eternal, niggling gossip of the clan, as they knitted drearily at interminable black stockings. They discussed Second Cousin Lilian’s approaching wedding in all its bearings. On the whole, they approved. Second Cousin Lilian was doing well for herself.
    â€œThough she hasn’t hurried,” said Cousin Stickles. “She must be twenty-five.”
    â€œThere have not—fortunately—been many old maids in our connection,” said Mrs. Frederick bitterly.
    Valancy flinched. She had run the darning needle into her finger.
    Third Cousin Aaron Gray had been scratched by a cat and had blood-poisoning in his finger. “Cats are most dangerous animals,” said Mrs. Frederick. “I would never have a cat about the house.”
    She glared significantly at Valancy through her terrible glasses. Once, five years ago, Valancy had asked if she might have a cat. She had never referred to it since, but Mrs. Frederick still suspected her of harboring the unlawful desire in her heart of hearts.
    Once Valancy sneezed. Now, in the Stirling code, it was very bad form to sneeze in public.
    â€œYou can always repress a sneeze by pressing your finger on your upper lip,” said Mrs. Frederick rebukingly.
    Half-past nine o’clock and so, as Mr. Pepys would say, to bed. But First Cousin Stickles’ neuralgic back must be rubbed with Redfern’s Liniment. Valancy did that. Valancy always had to do it. She hated the smell of Redfern’s Liniment—she hated the smug, beaming, portly, be-whiskered, be-spectacled picture of Dr. Redfern on the bottle. Her fingers smelled of the horrible stuff after she got into bed, in spite of all the scrubbing she gave them.
    Valancy’s day of destiny had come and gone. She ended it as she had begun it, in tears.

CHAPTER 7
    There was a rosebush on the little Stirling lawn, growing beside the gate. It was called “Doss’s rosebush.” Cousin Georgiana had given it to Valancy five years ago and Valancy had planted it joyfully. She loved roses. But—of course—the rosebush never bloomed. That was her luck. Valancy did everything she could think of and took the advice of everybody in the clan, but still the rosebush would not bloom. It throve and grew luxuriantly, with great leafy branches untouched by rust or spider; but not even a bud had ever appeared on it. Valancy, looking at it two days after her birthday, was filled with a sudden, overwhelming hatred for it. The thing wouldn’t bloom: very well, then, she would cut it down. She marched to the tool-room in the barn for her garden knife and she went at the rosebush viciously. A few minutes later horrified Mrs. Frederick came out to the veranda and beheld her daughter slashing insanely among the rosebush boughs. Half of them were already strewn on the walk. The bush looked sadly dismantled.
    â€œDoss, what on earth are you doing? Have you gone crazy?”
    â€œNo,” said Valancy. She meant to say it defiantly, but habit was too strong for her. She said it deprecatingly. “I—I just made up my mind to cut this bush down. It is no good. It never blooms—never will bloom.”
    â€œThat is no reason for destroying it,” said Mrs. Frederick sternly. “It was a beautiful bush and quite ornamental. You have made a sorry-looking thing of it.”
    â€œRose trees should bloom ,” said Valancy a little obstinately.
    â€œDon’t argue with me, Doss. Clear up that mess and leave the bush alone. I don’t know what Georgiana