adorned with a few gilt-topped books and a spindly lamp, the square
piano, the stiff-looking chairs and rockers, the few pictures against
the faded gold paper, the white mantel, set with shells and vases and a
few photographs, the quaint curving-backed sofa between the side
windows. He closed the door again and turned down the hall.

The stairway was narrow and winding, with a mahogany rail set upon white
spindles. It was uncarpeted and his feet sounded eerily on the steps. On
the floor above doors opened to left and right. The first led into what
had evidently been used as a spare bedroom. It was uncarpeted and but
scantily furnished. The door of the opposite room was closed. Wade
opened it reverently and unconsciously tiptoed to the window. When the
sunlight was streaming in he turned and surveyed the apartment with a
catch of his breath. It had been Her room. He had never seen her, yet he
had heard Ed speak of her so much that it seemed that he must have known
her. He tried not to think of the days when, lying there on the old
four-post bed with the knowledge of approaching death for company, she
had waited and waited for her son to come back to her. Ed had never
forgiven himself that, reflected Wade. He had been off in Wyoming at
the time, and when he had returned the two telegrams lay one upon the
other with a month's dust over them, the one apprising him of his
mother's illness and asking him to hurry home, the other tersely
announcing her death. Well, she knew all about it now, reflected Wade.
Ed had told her long before this.

It was a pleasant little room with its sloping ceilings and cheerful
pink paper. The bed was neatly spread with a patchwork quilt, and the
blankets and counterpane were folded and piled upon the foot. The old
mahogany bureau was just as she had left it, doubtless. The little,
knick-knacks still stood upon the brackets, and in the worsted-worked