Mother could not come home for six weeks, and during those weeks Pat and Judy ran Silver Bush, for both the aunts at the Bay Shore were ill and Winnie had to go the rescue. Pat was in the seventh heaven. She loved everything about the house more than ever. The fine hemstitched tablecloths. Judy's hooked rugs. the monogrammed sheets. the cedar chest full of blankets. the embroidered centerpieces. the lace doilies. the dear old blue willow-ware plates. Grandmother Selby's silver tea service, the old mirrors that had stolen a bit of loveliness from every fair face that had ever looked into them. All had a new meaning for her. Every window was loved for some special bit of beauty to be seen from it. She loved her own because she could see the Hill of the Mist. she loved the Poet's window because there was a far-away glimpse of the bay. she loved the round window because it looked right into the silver bush. she loved the front hall window because it looked squarely on the garden. As for its attic windows, one saw everything in the world worth seeing from them and sometimes Pat would go up the attic for no earthly reason except to look out of them.
She and Judy didn't make slaves of themselves. Every once in so long Pat would say,
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