"You see," she pointed out, "the little staircase is rather steep and
winding, but it is short; and the bedrooms are charming--not very big,
but so prettily shaped and with lovely views." Then she remembered that
she should miscall rather than praise, and added, "Of course, they have
all got queer ceilings; you couldn't expect anything else in a cottage.
Will you go upstairs?"

Mr. Reid thought not, and asked if he might see the sitting-rooms.
"This," said Jean, opening a door, "is the dining-room."

It was the room his mother had always sat in, where the horsehair
arm-chair had had its home, but it, too, had suffered a change. Gone was
the arm-chair, gone the round table with the crimson cover. This room
had an austerity unknown in the room he remembered. It was small, and
every inch of space was made the most of. An old Dutch dresser held
china and acted as a sideboard; a bare oak table, having in its centre a
large blue bowl filled with berries and red leaves, stood in the middle
of the room; eight chairs completed the furniture.

"This is the least nice room in the house," Jean told him, "but we are
never in it except to eat. It looks out on the road."

"Yes," said Peter Reid, remembering that that was why his mother had
liked it. She could sit with her knitting and watch the passers-by. She
had always "infused" the tea when she heard the click of the gate as he
came home from school.

"You will like to see the living-room," said Jean, shivering for the
effect its charm might have on a potential purchaser. She led him in,