CHAPTER XXIWhen Emily Dillon had walked that portulaca-bordered path through the white pillared gateway and down the pleasant street of her home village her heart had been light and happy, and there had been a smile on her face that was good to see. She nodded cheerily to the milkman and the iceman with that little rosebud smile she always wore, and tripped away into the summer like a happy robin. The milkman and iceman had both taken off their caps respectfully as they always did and looked after her with a warm feeling of friendship. Somehow she always made them feel as if they were gentlemen when they passed her.
She chatted with the butcher for a minute or two while she waited for her car, and he remarked as he went back to his customer in the shop: “That’s one good little woman, that
