nd a Wedgewood inkstand and vase.
In an arch, which she had manufactured from the space under the garret
stairs, stood her bed. At its foot, against the wall, a bunch of
crimson autumn leaves was fastened, and a bough, black and bare, with
an empty nest on it.

"Where is the feminine portion of your furnishing?"

"Look in the closet."

I opened a door. What had formerly been appropriated by mother to
blankets and comfortables, she had turned into a magazine of toilet
articles. There were drawers and boxes for everything which pertained
to a wardrobe, arranged with beautiful skill and neatness. She
directed my attention to her books, on hanging shelves, within reach
of the bed. Beneath them was a small stand, with a wax candle in a
silver candlestick.

"You read o' nights?"

"Yes; and the wax candle is my pet weakness."

"Have you put away Gray, and Pope, and Thomson?"

"The Arabian Nights and the Bible are still there. Mother thought you
would like to refurnish your room. It is the same as when we moved,
you know."

"Did she? I will have it done. Good-by."

"Good-by."

She was at the window now, and had opened a pane.

"What's that you are doing?"

"Looking through my wicket."

I went back again to understand the wicket. It had been made, she
said, so that she might have fresh air in all weathers, without
raising the windows. In the night she could look out without danger of
taking cold. We looked over the autumn fields; the crows were flying
seaward over the stubble, or settling in the branches of an old fir,
standing alone, midway between the woods and the orchard. The ground
before us, rising so gradually, and shortening the horizon, reminded
me of my childish notion that we were near the North Pole, and that
if we could get behind the low rim of sky we should be in the Arctic
Zone.

"The Northern Lights have not deserted us, Veronica?"

"No; they beckon me over there, in winter."

"Do you never tire of this limited, monotonous view--of a few uneven
fields, squared by grim stone walls?"

"That is not all. See those eternal travelers, the clouds, that hurry
up from some mysterious region to go over your way, where I never
look. If the landscape were wider, I could never learn it. And the
orchard--have you noticed that? There are bird and butterfly lives
in it, every year. Why, morning and night are wonderful from these
windows. But I must say the charm vanishes if I go from them. Surrey
is not