She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. Stanley changed his key. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. The idea of leaving for Mexico had become unbearable, as he was so easy to like and perhaps even easier to love.
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