up in front at our house. Mira's only three, but she's buttoned
up in front, too."
Miranda said nothing as she closed the door, but her looks were
more eloquent than words.
Rebecca stood perfectly still in the centre of the floor and
looked about her. There was a square of oilcloth in front of each
article of furniture and a drawn-in rug beside the single four
poster, which was covered with a fringed white dimity
counterpane.
Everything was as neat as wax, but the ceilings were much higher
than Rebecca was accustomed to. It was a north room, and the
window, which was long and narrow, looked out on the back
buildings and the barn.
It was not the room, which was far more comfortable than
Rebecca's own at Sunnybrook Farm, nor the lack of view, nor yet
the long journey, for she was not conscious of weariness; it was
not the fear of a strange place, for she adored new places and
new sensations; it was because of some curious blending of
uncomprehended emotions that Rebecca stood her beloved pink
sunshade in the corner, tore off her best hat, flung it on the
bureau with the porcupine quills on the under side, and stripping
down the dimity spread, precipitated herself into the middle of
the bed and pulled the counterpane over her head.
In a moment the door opened with a clatter of the latch.
Knocking was a refinement quite unknown in Riverboro, and if it
had been heard of, it would never have been wasted on a child.
Miss Miranda entered, and as her eye wandered about the vacant
room, it fell upon a white and tempestuous ocean of counterpane,
an ocean breaking into strange movements of wave and crest and
billow.