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. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. . "I'm my own master now, and I'll do as I please. Strict Catholics, and loyal to the backbone. Constantly sick with the croup or diaper rash.
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