the old wall-paper when she had studied it in her childhood. Ever
since her brother's death she had had this sense of his presence in
his room; now she thought no more of it than of any familiar figure.
All the grief at his death had vanished, but she never entered his
old room that the thought of him did not rise up before her and stay
with her while she remained.

Now, when she opened the door, and the opposite green and white
curtains flew out in the draught towards her, they were no more
evident than this presence to which she now gave no thought, and
pushed by her brother's memory without a glance.

Rose followed her to the bed. A white linen sheet was laid over the
chintz counterpane. Charlotte lifted the sheet.

"I took the last stitch on it Wednesday night," she said, in a hushed
voice.

"Didn't he come that night?"

"I finished it before he came."

"Did he see it?"

Charlotte nodded. The two girls stood looking solemnly at the silk
dress.

"You can't see it here; it's too dark," said Charlotte, and she
rolled up a window curtain.