The stricken lily of vice drooped upon its stem.
One by one the three heads turned to regard the orator.

How had she contrived that noiseless approach?
How had she found them at all in this seclusion?
The heads having turned to regard her, turned back and bowed in stony glares at the rich Whipple-nourished turf.

They felt her come toward them; her shadow from the high sun blended with theirs.

And again the voice, that fearsome organ on which she managed such dread effects: "Patricia Whipple, what does this mean ?" She confronted them, a spare, grim figure, tall, authoritative, seeming to be old as Time itself.

How were they to know that Juliana was still youthful, even attired youthfully, though by no means frivolously, or that her heart was gentle?
She might, indeed, have danced to them as Columbine, and her voice would still have struck them with terror.