There was Mother Mary Dane. She was a little woman with blue eyes and lots of soft brown hair that was usually wound into a firm, tight knot, because there was never any time to primp it up and do it fluffily. When the fever pains let the aviator up from his bed and allowed him the run of the place, he marveled at the amount of work a slip of a woman like Mary Dane could "turn off." He seemed to find her always churning, or stooped over everlasting "taken-in" sewing, or on her knees with garden trowel in her hand. Her mouth would be a stubborn line combating the weariness of her eyes, offsetting the whiteness of her face--only folks didn't often catch her like that. When she saw Raynor or Hal or Uncle Tel coming, she could usually produce a smile.