“There’s so much love in this house, Gram,” she said once when she was standing on a stepladder to put dishes away.

“Well, there is, darling,” Christina answered. “Is that strange?”

“In summer we’re outdoors. I guess I never thought much about the house. It seemed rather dark when I was a child.”

“All that oak—when I first came here as a bride I wanted to paint it white or something. But I’ve got used to it. Now I’m glad I didn’t change anything here. It is an ark, and arks have dark wooden walls. Is that it, do you suppose?”

“It’s more intimate,” Cathy observed. “And it has a good smell. I love the smell in the closet in my room—a smell of sneakers and tennis rackets and old clothes. New houses don’t have any smell.”

“Could you write a poem about that?” But it was the wrong question.

Cathy looked surprised. “My poems are about feelings,” she said, and made an excuse to disappear.

What were her feelings, Christina wondered? She fitted in almost too well, but so far there had been no revelations of her inner self—only the evidence that she was delighted to be here and that she dreaded school. The week was flying away already. And somehow, in relation to them, Christina felt, Cathy was rather like a passionate bird-watcher, observing a fascinating pair of old birds and keeping her thoughts to herself.

On the Sunday night before the first day of the new term, Cornelius asked her whether she could bring her guitar down and sing for them. “Would you like to? We hear lovely sounds—but rather faintly—from your attic.”

“All right,” she said, and ran upstairs.

“No more breakfasts in bed, darling,” Cornelius said while they waited. Cathy would have to leave the house at a quarter to seven to be picked up on the green by the school bus, and would not be home again till half past three. If the weather was too bad, she would take refuge at Ellen’s and phone from there and Christina would drive down the hill to fetch her, or Nick might bring her up when he came to fill the woodboxes.

“I do hope she’ll find her way at school. That is the big question, isn’t it?”

“Well, she’ll be a new girl, and I expect the boys at least will be interested.”

“I hate boys,” Cathy said, catching the last phrase as she came back. That’s what I dread most.”

That evening, for once, she had put on a skirt—a very short red-and-white kilt—her legs were concealed in black stockings and she had on a black turtle-neck sweater. Her remark was odder because she looked so attractive.

Cornelius coughed.

“But they won’t hate you, my girl. So you’d better watch out!”