even the edges of the opening were black; the outer light halted on
the threshold and never penetrated within. The warm odor of verbena
and dried rose leaves stole from a half-open door somewhere in the
cloistered gloom. Guided by it, Clarence presently found himself on the
threshold of a low-vaulted room. Two other narrow embrasured windows
like the one he had just seen, and a fourth, wider latticed casement,
hung with gauze curtains, suffused the apartment with a clear, yet
mysterious twilight that seemed its own. The gloomy walls were warmed
by bright-fringed bookshelves, topped with trifles of light feminine
coloring and adornment. Low easy-chairs and a lounge, small fanciful
tables, a dainty desk, gayly colored baskets of worsteds or mysterious
kaleidoscopic fragments, and vases of flowers pervaded the apartment
with a mingled sense of grace and comfort. There was a womanly
refinement in its careless negligence, and even the delicate wrapper of
Japanese silk, gathered at the waist and falling in easy folds to the
feet of the graceful mistress of this charming disorder, looked a part
of its refined abandonment.

Clarence hesitated as on the threshold of some sacred shrine. But Mrs.
Peyton, with her own hands, cleared a space for him on the lounge.

"You will easily suspect from all this disorder, Mr. Brant, that I spend
a greater part of my time here, and that I seldom see much company. Mr.
Peyton occasionally comes in long enough to stumble over a footstool or
upset a vase, and I think Mary and Susy avoid it from a firm conviction
that there is work concealed in these baskets. But I have my books
here, and in the afternoons, behind these thick walls, one forgets the
incessant stir and restlessness of the dreadful winds outside. Just
now you were foolish enough to tempt them while you were nervous, or
worried, or listless. Take my word for it, it's a great mistake. There