CHAPTER III.

_Wherein 'tis Shown that Boys Are but Boys._


The Faringfield house, as I have said, was flanked by garden space on
either side. It was on the Eastern side of the street, and so faced
West, the next house Southward being ours. The wide hall that we
entered ran straight back to a door opening from a wooden veranda that
looked toward the rear garden. At the right of this hall, as you went
in, a broad oak stairway invited you to the sleeping floor above. But
before you came to this stairway, you passed a door that gave into the
great parlour, which ran the whole length of the hall, and, being used
only on occasions of festivity or ceremony, was now closed and dark.
At the left of the hall, the first door led to the smaller parlour, as
wide but not as long as the great one, and in daily use as the chief
living-room of the house. Its windows were those through which the
candle-light within had welcomed us from the frosty, snowy air that
evening. Behind this parlour, and reached either directly from it, or
by a second door at the left side of the hall, was the library,
so-called although a single case of eight shelves sufficed to hold all
the books it contained. Yet Philip said there was a world in those
books. The room was a small and singularly cosy one, and here, when
Mr. Faringfield was not occupied at the mahogany desk, we children
might play at chess, draughts, cards, and other games. From this room,
one went back into the dining-room, another apartment endeared to me