Joyce was crying, up in old Monsieur Greville's tallest pear-tree. She
had gone down to the farthest corner of the garden, out of sight of the
house, for she did not want any one to know that she was miserable
enough to cry.
It was one of the prettiest places in all Kentucky where the Little
Colonel stood that morning. She was reaching up on tiptoes, her eager
little face pressed close against the iron bars of the great entrance
gate that led to a fine old estate known as "Locust."
It was the coldest Saint Valentine's eve that Kentucky had known in
twenty years. In Lloydsborough Valley a thin sprinkling of snow whitened
the meadows, enough to show the footprints of every hungry rabbit that
loped across them; but there were not many such tracks. It was so cold
that t ...