It was late in March, and the ground about the cabin was yellow with low-growing compositæ. The air was honey-sweet and dripping with bird-song. Inside the house a woman and a girl were talking.
"Oh, he's not worrying," said the latter. "What's he got to worry about? He lets us do all that. Lib's got the baby and we've got to bear all the disgrace. I"—
"Myrtie," called a clear voice from the veranda, "shut up! You may say what you please about me, and you may say what you please about him, but nobody's going to call this baby a disgrace."
She caught the child up and kissed the back of its neck with passionate vehemence. The baby struggled in her embrace and gave a little cry of outraged dignity.
Indoors the girl looked at her mother and bit her lip in astonished dismay.
"I didn't know she could hear," she whispered.
A tall young woman came up the walk, trailing her tawdry ruffles over the fragrant alfileria.
"Is Miss Sunderland"—She colored a dull pink and glanced at the baby.
"I'm Lib Sunderland. Won't you come in?" said Lib.
The newcomer sank down on the upper step and leaned against the post of the veranda.