Years of Grace

Years of Grace

By Margaret Ayer Barnes.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. Dedication
4. Years of Grace
   1. Part I: André
      1. I
         1. I
         2. II
      2. II
         1. I
         2. II
      3. III
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
      4. IV
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
         4. IV
         5. V
         6. VI
   2. Part II: Stephen
      1. I
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
         4. IV
      2. II
         1. I
         2. II
      3. III
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
         4. IV
      4. IV
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
         4. IV
         5. V
   3. Part III: Jimmy
      1. I
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
         4. IV
      2. II
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
         4. IV
         5. V
         6. VI
         7. VII
      3. III
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
         4. IV
         5. V
      4. IV
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
         4. IV
         5. V
         6. VI
         7. VII
      5. V
         1. I
         2. II
   4. Part IV: Cicily, Jenny, and Steve
      1. I
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
         4. IV
         5. V
         6. VI
      2. II
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
         4. IV
         5. V
         6. VI
      3. III
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
      4. IV
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
         4. IV
         5. V
         6. VI
      5. V
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
         4. IV
         5. V
      6. VI
         1. I
         2. II
         3. III
         4. IV
         5. V
         6. VI
         7. VII
         8. VIII
         9. IX
         10. X
5. Colophon
6. Uncopyright

Imprint

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For
C. B.
who listened to it

Years of Grace

Part I

André

I

I

Little Jane Ward sat at her father’s left hand at the family breakfast table, her sleek, brown pigtailed head bent discreetly over her plate. She was washing down great mouthfuls of bacon and eggs with gulps of too hot cocoa. She did not have to look at the great black clock, surmounted by the bronze bird, that had stood on the dining-room mantelpiece ever since she could remember, to know that it was twenty minutes after eight. If she hurried with her breakfast she could get off for school before Flora and Muriel called to walk up with her. If she could escape them she could meet André, loitering nonchalantly near the Water Works Tower, and walk up with him. She could walk up with him anyway, of course, but, with Flora and Muriel fluttering and giggling at her elbow, it would not be quite the same.

Her father was buried behind the far-flung pages of the Chicago Tribune. Her mother sat behind the coffee tray, immaculately clad in a crisp white dressing-sack, her pretty, proud little head held high above the silver urn, her eyes wandering competently over the breakfast table. Her sister, Isabel, was not yet down. Her sister Isabel was nineteen. Grown up. Her school days behind her. A young lady. About to become a débutante. Old enough to loiter, unrebuked, in bed, after a late party, until her father had left for the office and Jane was well on her way to school.

“Jane,” said her mother tranquilly, “don’t take such large mouthfuls.” Jane was not grown up. Jane was still fourteen. Young enough to be rebuked for almost anything, including table manners.

“What’s the hurry, kid?” said her father cheerfully, lowering the margins of the paper. He was nearly always cheerful. His brown eyes twinkled as they rested on Jane. They usually did.

“I want to get off to school early,” said Jane plausibly. “I want to meet Agnes.”

“Agnes!” exclaimed her mother with a little fretful shrug. “Always, Agnes!”

That was all, but it was quite enough. Jane knew very well that her mother did not approve of Agnes Johnson. And Jane knew why. With the crystal clarity of fourteen-year-old perception, Jane knew why all too well. It was because Agnes lived west of Lincoln Park and her father was a newspaper reporter and her mother worked in an office. Her mother was somebody’s secretary. There was something unforgivable in that.

Her mother did approve, now, of Flora Furness and Muriel Lester. She approved of them wholeheartedly. They lived just around the corner. Flora on Rush Street, in a big brown stone house with lilac bushes in the yard, and Muriel on Huron, in a grey stone fortress, built by Richardson, the great Eastern architect. Muriel gave a party every Christmas vacation. A dancing party, with white crash laid down over the parlor carpet and an orchestra, hidden in palms, beneath the stairs. Flora’s house was very large and lovely. It had belonged to her grandfather. It had a big ballroom, tucked away under its mansard roof and there was a tiger-skin