NANCY 113 



From my earliest schooldays I had carefully guarded 

 my altar of pleasure — I believed in it then — and 

 I believe in it now; and I had observed that 

 Vi^hether it is good for you or bad for you the 

 one thing the average pastor, or master, or creditor 

 seeks to take from you is the thing which your 

 soul loves. Long after I was old enough to know 

 better I had been greedy about more marrons 

 glaces and cream-filled chocolate cakes than were 

 good for me, and vain about the possession of many 

 more hats than I could wear ; but I loved flowers 

 most dearly and truly and always insisted upon 

 having them near. When the particular person in 

 authority to whom I invariably owed more than the 

 full sum of my month's pocket in advance discussed 

 the situation, I always noticed that neither my 

 expensive greediness nor vanity provoked attack 

 so much as the few pennyworth of violets that 

 were always consoling, and kind, and silent, and 

 there when the world went wrong. The soul 

 expands with pleasure as the heart expands in 

 giving, but the people who wait to give until 

 they can afford to give never give. To return 

 to the gift upon my own altar, it was reserved 

 for the inspiration of a visit to New York, and 

 to return to January 6, 1906, early in the after- 

 noon my predecessor called on me for the 

 payment of the thousand dollars already six days 

 overdue. 



I was in no enviable frame of mind. Jim, the 

 most powerful of the four horses, was ailing, and 

 my brother constantly complaining of the cold 

 stables, lack of hay, shortage of oats, and things 

 generally. He insisted that horses must be blanketed, 



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