It is a big room at the end of the wing, and it has three windows in
it: one in the front and one in the back and one opposite the door you
come in. And when the paper was put on you felt like you were in a great
big garden of roses; pink roses, for they were running all over the
walls, and they were so natural I could smell them. I really could.

Miss Katherine brought her own furniture and things, and she put a
carpet on the floor, all over, not just strips. And the windows had
muslin curtains at them with cretonne curtains just full of pink roses,
looped back from the muslin ones; and the couch and the cushions and
some chairs were all covered with the same kind of pink roses. And as
for the bed, it was too sweet for anybody to lie on--that is, for
anybody but Miss Katherine to lie on.

There was a big closet for her clothes, and a writing-desk which had
been in the family a hundred years--maybe a thousand. I don't know. And
one side of the room was filled with books in shelves which old Peter
Sands made and painted white for her. She lets me look at them as much
as I want, and says I can read as many as I choose when I am old enough
to understand them. She didn't mention any time to begin trying to
understand, and so I started at once, and I've read about forty already.

There aren't a great many pictures on Miss Katherine's walls. Just a few
besides the portraits of her father and mother, oil paintings. And oh,
dear children what are to be, I'm going to have my picture painted as
soon as I marry your father, so you can know what I looked like in case
I should die without warning. I want you to have it, knowing so well
what it means to have nothing that belonged to your mother, I not having
anything--not even a strand of hair or a message.