"Those others," said she, wiping her eyes on her coarse apron, "they are kind, but they don't understand."
"They mean well," said the Watermelon, "but you have to go through the mill yourself, to do well. I know what poverty means. Its ways ain't ways of pleasantness by a dog-gone sight."
"Beggars all, beggars all," cried Henrietta, as they started up the road, in the dewy freshness of early morning.
It was still early and quite cool, with the breeze of the night following them, laden with the depressing odor of charred timbers and burning leather. The road wound around a hill, sloping now and again into the valley and rising again to the heights. The view swept fields and hills and woods, all of the deep green of mid-June, and over all bent the blue sky of a summer day.
The air was like ozone. It was a physical joy simply to walk, to breathe the odor of fields and woods and open places and to let one's eyes dwell on the beauty and the glory of the land.
"I am glad it pleases you, Henrietta," said the general tartly.
Henrietta sobered. "Father, I feel as badly as you do about the car. But I can't go into mourning for it."
"You needed another one anyway," consoled Billy, with the kindly reassurance and hopeless misunderstanding of the rich. "The last model is out now, you know."
"Billy," said Henrietta, "do you think we can buy a car every time the humor moves us? You don't understand."
"I know," said Billy humbly, crushed under repeated rebuffs from every one. "I am a perfect fool, Henrietta, but I can't help it."