No, no--let her run the house--she thinks she owns it." "She's fond of you, isn't she ?" asked Mrs.Porne.
"O I guess so--if I let her have her own way.

And she certainly saves me a great deal of trouble.

Speaking of trouble, there they are--she said she'd stop for me." At the gate puffed the big car, a person in livery rang the bell, and Mrs.Weatherstone kissed her friend warmly, and passed like a heavy shadow along the rose-bordered path.

In the tonneau sat a massive old lady in sober silks, with a set impassive countenance, severely correct in every feature, and young Mat Weatherstone, sulky because he had to ride with his grandmother now and then.

He was not a nice young man.
***** Diantha found it hard to write her home letters, especially to Ross.