"Mattie'll show you." The older woman took the baby and the girl led them up a narrow white staircase, uncarpeted and spotless, that zigzagged to the floor above.
At the end of the hall she opened a low door, painted white and fastened with a hand-made latch. They entered a huge room, whitewashed, with white wainscoting, white matting and a great white bed, the most spotless room Jean had ever seen. Ancient apple trees brushed the four gleaming windows and the cluck of chickens came from the yard. The smell of the earth, warmed slightly in the spring sun, and a faint fragrance from swelling trees, flooded it.
Jean reached out and touched the baby green of apple leaves. It made her think of the old pine and her attic room, and of how often she had reached out to shake the fog diamonds from the needles and wish that something would happen, anything to break the monotony. The old pine was thousands of miles away and that self years in the past. Inwardly and outwardly she now lived in another world. And yet, looking down the years, Jean could put her finger on no moment of sudden change. It must all have been there, from the beginning, in herself; her right of way through the world of action, which she had once believed held no entry for her; her marriage with a man who came to her from one woman's arms and left her for another; this wonderful love that was so right in spite of the world's standards. And the future? It was there, just as the present had been in the past. Jean leaned out of the window and drew the warm sweetness into her. For the first time in her life she felt part of a scheme, obedient to a law that worked on without her will.
The girl went out of the room and Gregory put down the grip. He came and stood beside her. She turned and laid her face against his shoulder. He stroked her hair gently, a new tenderness in his touch.
After a moment she raised her head and smiled.
"Let's go out and explore."
From the kitchen window Mrs. Morrison watched them. "Seems like a nice couple and powerful fond. Look, Mattie, he's holdin' her hand."
Hand in hand, Gregory and Jean were peering into the chicken run. The girl shrugged:
"I guess they ain't been married long. He won't be doin' it this time next year."
"Don't talk so shaller, Mat. What if he ain't? It can't be spring all year."