feet with the yielding of heavy padding beneath--were bright under
beds and wardrobes, while in the centers of the rooms they had
faded into the softness of old tapestry.

Maggie, I remember, on our arrival moved a chair from the wall
in the library, and immediately put it back again, with a glance
to see if I had observed her.

"It's nice and clean, Miss Agnes," she said. "A--I kind of feel
that a little dirt would make it more homelike."

"I'm sure I don't see why," I replied, rather sharply, "I've lived
in a tolerably clean house most of my life."

Maggie, however, was digging a heel into the padded carpet. She
had chosen a sunny place for the experiment, and a small cloud of
dust rose like smoke.

"Germs!" she said. "Just what I expected. We'd better bring the
vacuum cleaner out from the city, Miss Agnes. Them carpets haven't
been lifted for years."

But I paid little attention to her. To Maggie any particle of
matter not otherwise classified is a germ, and the prospect of
finding dust in that immaculate house was sufficiently thrilling to
tide over the strangeness of our first few hours in it.

Once a year I rent a house in the country. When my nephew and niece
were children, I did it to take them out of the city during school
vacations. Later, when they grew up, it was to be near the country