There was a covered piazza
behind it, furnished with a swing which was a source of tremulous
interest; and beyond this was a long garden, sloping down to the
stable and containing peach-trees of barely credible familiarity.
Isabel had stayed with her grandmother at various seasons, but somehow
all her visits had a flavour of peaches. On the other side, across the
street, was an old house that was called the Dutch House- a peculiar
structure dating from the earliest colonial time, composed of bricks
that had been painted yellow, crowned with a gable that was pointed
out to strangers, defended by a rickety wooden paling and standing
sidewise to the street. It was occupied by a primary school for
children of both sexes, kept or rather let go, by a demonstrative lady
of whom Isabel's chief recollection was that her hair was fastened
with strange bedroomy combs at the temples and that she was the
widow of some one of consequence. The little girl had been offered the
opportunity of laying a foundation of knowledge in this establishment;
but having spent a single day in it, she had protested against its
laws and had been allowed to stay at home, where, in the September
days, when the windows of the Dutch House were open, she used to
hear the hum of childish voices repeating the multiplication-table- an
incident in which the elation of liberty and the pain of exclusion
were indistinguishably mingled.
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