'I don't know what's happened to me,' she said, half wistful, half smiling; 'I never stayed in bed to breakfast in my life before.

At Greyridge, they'd think I had gone out of my mind.' Eleanor inquired if it was an invariable sign of lunacy in America to take your breakfast in bed.

Lucy couldn't say.

All she knew was that nobody ever took it so in Greyridge, Vermont, unless they were on the point of death.
'I should never be any good, any more,' she said, with an energy that brought the red back to her cheeks,--'if they were to spoil me at home, as you spoil me here.' Eleanor waved her hand, smiled, and went her way.
As she moved further and further away from them down the long avenue, she saw them all the time, though she never once looked back--saw the eager inquiries of the man, the modest responsiveness of the girl.

She was leaving them to themselves--at the bidding of her own pride--and they had the May morning before them.