If May appeared in a new dress he frowned, and his wife trembled every time she put in a breast-pin.
Only in her own room was May mistress of every thing.

If any body had looked into it he would have seen only the traces of a careful and elegant hand, and often enough he would have seen a delicate girl-face, almost too thoughtful for so young a face, resting upon the hand, as if May Newt were troubled and perplexed by the gloom of the house and the silence of the household.

Her window opened over the street, and there were a few horse-chestnut trees before the house.

She made friends with them, and they covered themselves with blossoms for her pleasure.

She sat for hours at her window, looking into the trees, sewing, reading, musing--solitary as a fairy princess in a tower.
Sometimes flowers came, with Uncle Lawrence's love.