Mildred was right. Buck Hill was a perfect place for parties—of all kinds. There was a long, broad hall leading into double parlors on one side and on the other the dining-room and sitting-room. The satiny floors—ideal for dancing—reflected in their polished surfaces rare pieces of old mahogany. French windows opened on the porches, where comfortable wicker chairs and hammocks were plentiful.

The garden to the south of the house was noted in a county famous for gardens. Mr. Bucknor prided himself on having every kind of known rose that would grow in the Kentucky climate. The garden had everything in it a garden should have—marble benches, a sun dial, a pergola, a summer house, a box maze and a fountain around which was a circle of stone flagging with flowering portulacca springing up in the cracks. The shrubs were old and huge, forming pleasant nooks for benches—now a couple of syringa bushes meeting overhead, now 90 lilacs, white and purple extending an invitation to lovers to come sit on the bench. Oh, Buck Hill was a place for lovers! The garden a place of all places!

The house party was in full swing. Five guests had arrived on the six-thirty and three more on the seven o’clock trolley and a car of six had driven over from Lexington in time for supper. The mansion was filled and running over, but the overflow could always be taken care of in “The Office,” a cottage near the house, a building quite common in old southern homes, often set aside for young male visitors.

Cousin Ann had been lying down all afternoon in response to the earnest pleadings of old Billy. He had pressed the sprigged muslin and it hung on a hook behind the door in readiness for the mistress. Then he brought her a pitcher of water, fresh from the well, and a funny little tight bouquet of verbenas.

“I thought you mought w’ar ’em in yo’ ha’r, Miss Ann,” he said. “I ’member how you uster always w’ar verbeny in yo’ ha’r.”

“So I did, Billy.” Miss Ann raised her hand to her hair, but quickly dropped it, remembering suddenly that her own snowy locks were exposed to view. She did not relish having even old Billy see her without her wig. She drew a scarf 91 over her head and Billy turned his away, pretending he had not seen what she did not want him to see.

“Now you dress up pretty, Miss Ann, an’ ’member th’ain’t gonter be nary pusson here what kin hol’ a can’le to you.”

“Have they come yet, Billy?”

“Some air come an’ mo’ air comin’, so I reckon you’d bes’ rise an’ shine, Miss Ann. Kin I he’p you none?”

Such was the old man’s devotion to his mistress that he would gladly have served her as lady’s maid had he been called on to do so.

“I hope the fuss these young folks kick up ain’t gonter ’sturb you none,” he said as he opened the door and shrieks of gay laughter floated up from the hall below.

The business of dressing was a serious one for Miss Ann Peyton. In the first place she was exquisitely neat and particular and every article of clothing must be exactly right. Her clothes were old and worn and every time she dressed some break was discovered that must be darned. Her hoop skirt was ever in need of repair, with tapes that had broken from their moorings or strings that had come loose. On this evening she discovered a small hole in her little satin slipper that must be adroitly mended with court plaster. 92 The auburn wig must be combed and curled. A touch of rouge must be rubbed on the poor old cheeks. The Peyton pearls must be taken from the strong box—a necklace, earrings, breastpin and tiara. When all was over Miss Ann really did look lovely. With the dignity and carriage that any queen might have envied she swept down the broad stairway.

“Heavens! Mildred, why didn’t you let us know you were to have a fancy dress ball?” cried Jean Roland, and all of the gay young things gathered in the broad hall looked up as Miss Ann descended. To most of them she was but a figure of fun.

“Oh, that’s nobody but old Cousin Ann Peyton,” explained Mildred. “She’s our chronic visitor. She always dresses like a telephone doll.”

Miss Ann heard both remarks, but gave no sign of annoyance, except to hold her head with added dignity. A chronic visitor could not afford to show resentment at the thoughtless rudeness of young persons. It seemed to the old lady that young cousins in all the homes where she visited were growing more and more outspoken and rude and less and less considerate of her. She still deemed it her right to be honored guest wherever she chose to bestow the privilege of her 93 company, although her self-esteem had had many a quiet dig and a few hard knocks in the recent months.

Sometimes the thought came to Cousin Ann that the young cousins were perhaps taking their cue from the older generation. Were the older ones quite as polite and cordial as they had been? Of course one might expect brusqueness from Betty Throckmorton, but was there not a change of manner even here at Buck Hill—not just rudeness from Mildred, who was nothing but a spoiled child, but from Mr. and Mrs. Bucknor themselves? Then there was Big Josh and Little Josh, both of whom had made excuses about having her and had assured her they would write for her to come to them later on and she had heard from neither of them.

She paused a moment and looked down on the happy young people. She wondered if they realized how happy they were or if it would be necessary to be old to appreciate the blessing of merely being young. Suddenly a picture of her youth came back to her with a poignancy that almost hurt. It was in that very hall and she was standing on those very stairs—perhaps in that self-same spot. There was a house party at Buck Hill and she had come from Peyton only that morning in a brand new carriage with 94 Billy driving the spanking pair of nags. Billy was young then, but so trustworthy that her father had been willing to let him take charge of his daughter. She remembered the rejoicing in the family when she arrived. How they gathered around her and embraced her! Robert Bucknor, the father of the present owner, was then a young man. How gentle and tender he was with her, how courtly and kind!

When he saw her standing alone on the stairs looking down on the assembled company he had sprung up the steps, two at a time, and taken her hand in his: “Oh, Cousin Ann, how beautiful you are! If I could only feel that the time might come when this would be your home—yours and mine.”

And she had answered, “Not yet, Cousin Robert, please don’t talk about it yet,” because the memory of Bert Mason, the young lover who had been killed in the war, was still too vivid for her to think of other ties. “But you are very dear to me and if ever—” Thus she had put him off.

While she had stood there talking to Robert Bucknor—young then and now old and dead and gone—Billy, with ashen face, had come to her with the news that Peyton, her beloved home, was completely destroyed by fire. She 95 had fainted. Young ladies usually fainted in those days when overcome by emotion. How the friends and cousins rallied around her with offers of assistance! They actually quarreled about her, so eager were they for her to visit them.

“You must make your home with me.”

“No, with me!”

“I must have part of her.”

“My turn is next,” and so on.

And then the owner of Buck Hill and his sweet wife had told her that their home was hers and she was ever to feel as free to be there as though she had been truly a daughter of the house. Then had begun the years of visiting for Ann Peyton. Her father had died a few weeks after the fire and later an only brother. She had more invitations to visit than she knew what to do with. Billy had been welcome, too, and there was always stable room for her horses and a place in the coach house for her carriage, no matter where she visited.

How many years had passed since that evening in June when she had stood in that spot and looked down on the crowd of young men and women? She dared not count, but there was the grandson of that Robert Bucknor, standing in the great hall and trying hard to 96 pretend to be interested in what a beautiful girl was saying to him. The beautiful girl was the one who had made the remark about a fancy dress ball. The grandson of Robert Bucknor had not heard her say it nor had he heard his sister’s cruel answer, as he had come into the hall the moment afterward. Now he was plainly bored, but trying to conceal it. The girl was chattering like a magpie. Suddenly Jeff looked up and saw Miss Ann.

“Oh, Cousin Ann!” he cried, bounding up the steps, two at a time, quite as his grandfather had done on that day so many, many years ago, “how lovely you look! I’d like to dance a minuet with you.” Then he gave her his arm and escorted her down the stairs. Supper was announced immediately and Jeff marched in with his aged cousin, much to the chagrin of Mildred, who had planned otherwise for her good-looking brother.

“Horrid old thing!” she said to Tom Harbison, who was dancing attendance on her. “Grabbing Jeff that way! How does she expect the men to go around if she takes one of the beaux?”

“And did you see her with flowers in her hair?” asked Nan in a stage whisper. “Verbenas!” and then a fat boy who sang tenor 97 and passed as something of a wag sang:

At this all the young folks laughed. Miss Ann heard Nan’s stage whisper, and felt Mildred’s glance of disapproval and was quite conscious that the fat boy’s song was meant to make game of her, but nothing mattered much except that Robert Bucknor’s grandson, who looked so like him, had run up the steps to meet her and had told her she looked lovely and was now holding her hand tightly clasped against his warm young heart. She saw old Billy peeping from the pantry door as they entered the dining-room and she caught his glance of pride and gratification when she appeared with the young master.

“What I tell you?” he muttered. “Ain’t my Miss Ann the pick er the bunch?”