had gone with them; running ahead and switching on rows of
electrics down the corridors, and then, with a wire-basketed electric
lamp, which he twirled about and held aloft and alow, showing the
dustless, sweet-smelling spaciousness of a perfect five-dollar room.
He said it would more than hold their things; and it really held them.

Now, when the same young fellow unlocked the iron door and set it
wide, he said he would get them a man, and he got Mrs. Forsyth a gilt
armchair from some furniture going into an adjoining twenty-dollar
room. She sat down in it, and "Of course," she said, "the pieces I
want will be at the very back and the very bottom. Why don't you get
yourself a chair, too, Ambrose? What are you looking at?"

With his eyes on the neighboring furniture he answered, "Seems to be
the wreck of a millionaire's happy home; parlor and kitchen utensils
and office furniture all in white and gold."

"Horrors, yes!" Mrs. Forsyth said, without turning her head from
studying her trunks, as if she might divine their contents from their
outside.

"Tata and I," her husband said, "are more interested in the
millionaire's things." Tata, it appeared, was not a dog, but a child;
the name was not the diminutive of her own name, which was Charlotte,
but a generic name for a doll, which Tata had learned from her Italian
nurse to apply to all little girls and had got applied to herself by
her father. She was now at a distance down the corridor, playing a
drama with the pieces of millionaire furniture; as they stretched away
in variety and splendor they naturally suggested personages of
princely quality, and being touched with her little forefinger tip
were capable of entering warmly into Tata's plans for them.

Her mother looked over her shoulder toward the child. "Come here,
Tata," she called, and when Tata, having enjoined some tall mirrors to
secrecy with a frown and a shake of the head, ran to her, Mrs. Forsyth
had forgotten why she had called her. "Oh!" she said, recollecting,
"do you know which your trunk is, Tata? Can you show mamma? Can you
put your hand on it?"

The child promptly put her hand on the end of a small box just within
her tiptoe reach, and her mother said, "I do believe she knows
everything that's in it, Ambrose! That trunk has got to be opened the
very first one!"

The man that the young fellow said he would send showed at the far end
of the corridor, smaller than human, but enlarging himself to t