The bushes were full of pinkish-purple buds. Sylvia's front yard
reached the road in a broad slope, and the ground was hard, and green
with dampness under the shade of a great elm-tree. The grass would
never grow there over the roots of the elm, which were flung out
broadly like great recumbent limbs over the whole yard, and were
barely covered by the mould.
Across the street, seen under the green sweep of the elm, was an
orchard of old apple-trees which had blossomed out bravely that
spring. Charlotte looked at the white and rosy masses of bloom.
"I guess there wasn't any frost last night, after all," she remarked.
"I dunno," responded Sylvia, in a voice which made her niece look
around at her. There was a curious impatient ring in it which was
utterly foreign to it. There was a frown between Sylvia's gentle
eyes, and she moved with nervous jerks, setting down dishes hard, as
if they were refractory children, and lashing out with spoons as if
they were whips. The long, steady strain upon her patience had not
affected her temper, but this last had seemed to bring out a certain
vicious and waspish element which nobody had suspected her to
possess, and she herself least of all. She felt this morning disposed
to go out of her way to sting, and as if some primal and evil
instinct had taken possession of her. She felt shocked at herself,
but all the more defiant and disposed to keep on.
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