jagged pieces of quartz shining here and there with mica scales, into a
symmetrical pile, which somehow had the effect of a Pagan altar.

"Well," said Patty, as she watched her, "I don't think you'll need any of
the decorations I expected to give you."

"Oh, Miss Patty," said Pansy earnestly, "please don't make me have
pictures, and pincushions, and vases, and all those things; I like my own
things so much better."

"You shall fix your room just as you choose," said Patty kindly; "and if
I can help you in any way, I'll be glad to do so. How are _you_
progressing, Mancy?"

Patty stepped across the hall to her cook's room, and found its stout
occupant rather precariously perched on a chair, tacking up a picture.
She had evidently improved her time, for many other pictures were already
in place, and, what is unusual in either a public or private art-gallery,
the pictures were all exactly alike. They were large, very highly
coloured, unframed, and, in fact, were nothing more or less than
advertisements of a popular soap. The subject was a broadly-grinning old
coloured woman, washing clothes, that were already snow-white, in a sea
of soapsuds.

"For goodness' sake, Mancy!" exclaimed Patty. "Who said you might drive
tacks all over these new walls, and where did you get all those pictures
of yourself?"

"They does favour me, don't they, missy?" exclaimed Mancy, beaming with
delight, as she took another tack from her mouth, and pounded it into