She was called Laurel and her home was a mountain top in the Appalachains. She lived on the edge of a meadow and behind her home was the forest. The nearest village was in the valley, four miles away. Life was different on a mountain top compared to life in the valley and weather conditions were different as well. Take the month of March, for instance. March in the valley meant kites that fluttered and dipped, hopscotch on the sidewalk, or if it wasn't too blustery, an evening stroll around the square. March on a mountain top usually meant cold wind and snow.

This evening as Laurel sat by the hearth enjoying the warmth of her fireplace, she found herself reminiscing about an earlier time, a time when she had visited her Uncle David and Aunt Rachel in Philadelphia. She had arrived in March, the Saturday before Easter, and the weather had been wonderfully pleasant. She had brought her best calico dress to wear for services the next day and had thought it suitable. She hadn't figured on being a participant in an Easter Parade, but she had readily agreed to join in when her uncle invited her and was secretely glad she had brought her bonnet.

After the service she accompanied her aunt and uncle and the three of them joined others who strolled along exchanging pleasantries to those they passed. Her uncle had worn his top hat and her aunt had worn a frock of the latest fashion, which caused her, Laurel, to feel somewhat embarrassed. Her simple dress of calico didn't compare to the stylish dress her aunt wore.

Their afternoon stroll ended at the home of a friend and neighbor who had invited them for an early supper, and wonder of wonders, she discovered that her uncle's neighbor was a famous artist. No sooner were they were introduced when Jonathan Coughey commented on her remarkably smooth complexion and her beautiful long hair. With heartfelt sincerity she thanked him, and later, when he asked if she would pose for him before she returned to the mountains, she told him yes.

Now her gaze shifted to the portrait that hung above her fireplace. It was her's now and it had hung over her fireplace for the past ten years. So often when she sat this way, reminiscing about the past, she would remember how embarrassed she had felt that Easter Sunday and how Jonathan Coughey, the artist, had made her feel special even though her dress had been a simple calico.