The first interview, purely a casual one, took place on the edge of the lily pond where Olive was sketching frogs, and where Nancy went for cat-o’-nine-tails.  It proved to be a long and intimate talk, and when Mrs. Carey looked out of her bedroom window just before supper she saw, at the pasture bars, the two girls with their arms round each other and their cheeks close together.  Nancy’s curly chestnut crop shone in the sun, and Olive’s thick black plaits looked blacker by contrast.  Suddenly she flung her arms round Nancy’s neck, and with a sob darted under the bars and across the fields without a backward glance.

A few moments later Nancy entered her mother’s room, her arms filled with treasures from the woods and fields.  “Oh, Motherdy!” she cried, laying down her flowers and taking off her hat.  “I’ve found such a friend; a real understanding friend; and it’s the girl from the House of Lords.  She’s wonderful!  More wonderful than anybody we’ve ever seen anywhere, and she draws better than the teacher in Charlestown!  She’s older than I am, but so tiny and sad and shy that she seems like a child.  Oh, mother, there’s always so much spare room in your heart,—­for you took in Julia and yet we never felt the difference,—­won’t you make a place for Olive?  There never was anybody needed you so much as she does,—­never.”

Have you ever lifted a stone and seen the pale, yellow, stunted shoots of grass under it?  And have you gone next day and next, and watched the little blades shoot upward, spread themselves with delight, grow green and wax strong; and finally, warm with the sun, cool with the dew, vigorous with the flow of sap in their veins, seen them wave their green tips in the breeze?  That was what happened to Olive Lord when she and Cyril were drawn into a different family circle, and ran in and out of the Yellow House with the busy, eager group of Mother Carey’s chickens.

XIX

OLD AND NEW

The Yellow House had not always belonged to the Hamiltons, but had been built by a governor of the state when he retired from public office.  He lived only a few years, and it then passed into the hands of Lemuel Hamilton’s grandfather, who had done little or nothing in the way of remodelling the buildings.

Governor Weatherby had harbored no extraordinary ambition regarding architectural excellence, for he was not a rich man; he had simply built a large, comfortable Colonial house.  He desired no gardens, no luxurious stables, no fountains nor grottoes, no bathroom (for it was only the year 1810), while the old oaken bucket left nothing to be desired as a means of dispensing water to the household.  He had one weakness, however, and that was a wish to make the front of the house as impressive as possible.  The window over the front door was as beautiful a window as any in the county, and the doorway itself was celebrated throughout the state.  It had a wonderful fan light