I became critical of matters never questioned before. I fell foul of Bettina. She was selfish. She was vain. And her hair was turning pink.
It was true that the paler gold of early childhood was warming to a sort of apricot shade, infinitely lovely. But "pink hair" was accounted libellous. And, anyhow, it was a crime to tease Bettina.
Wasn't it worse, I demanded, groping among the new perceptions dawning—wasn't it worse for Bettina to tease a dumb animal?
The "worse," I was shrewd to note, was not admitted. But "Of course, Bettina must not tease the cat."
With unloving eyes I watched my mother lift an ugly black spider very gently in a handkerchief, and put the creature out to safety.
But that haggard hop-picker—no, I couldn't understand it.
The hop-picker haunted me.
Then I made a compact with her. For her sake I would contrive, somehow, to give bread to any hungry man or woman who should go by. "And so," I addressed the hop-picker in my thoughts, "though you had no bread for yourself,
