The Sanctum was the front room on the second floor. It had been the
Little Mother's room in the days when she was still with them, and now it
had been turned into a retreat where the young people drifted when they
wanted quiet, or where they met for consultation and advice. Except that
the walnut bed and bureau had been taken out nothing had been changed,
and their mother's books were still in the low bookcases; religious
books, many of them, reflecting the gentle faith of the owner. On mantel
and table and walls were photographs of her children in long clothes and
short, and then once more in long ones; there was Barry in wide collars
and knickerbockers, and Constance and Mary in ermine caps and capes;
there was Barry again in the military uniform of his preparatory school;
Constance in her graduation frock, and Mary with her hair up for the
first time. There was a picture of their father on porcelain in a blue
velvet case, and another picture of him above the mantel in an oval
frame, with one of the Little Mother's, also in an oval frame, to flank
it. In the fairness of the Little Mother one traced the fairness of
Barry and Constance. But the fairness and features of the father were
Mary's.

Mary had never looked more like her father than now when, sitting under
his picture, she stated her case. What she had to say she said simply.
But when she had finished there was the silence of astonishment.

In a day, almost in an hour, little Mary had grown up! With Constance as
the nominal head of the household, none of them had realized that it was
Mary's mind which had worked out the problems of making ends meet, and
that it was Mary's strength and industry which had supplemented Susan's
waning efforts in the care of the big house.

"I want to keep the house," Mary repeated. "I had to talk it over