'em, that I'm aware of." Mrs. Manstey, knowing this, was silent.
"There is no help for it," Mrs. Sampson repeated, "but if I AM a
church member, I wouldn't be so sorry if it ruined Eliza Black.
Well, good-day, Mrs. Manstey; I'm glad to find you so
comfortable."

So comfortable--so comfortable! Left to herself the old woman
turned once more to the window. How lovely the view was that
day! The blue sky with its round clouds shed a brightness over
everything; the ailanthus had put on a tinge of yellow-green, the
hyacinths were budding, the magnolia flowers looked more than
ever like rosettes carved in alabaster. Soon the wistaria would
bloom, then the horse-chestnut; but not for her. Between her
eyes and them a barrier of brick and mortar would swiftly rise;
presently even the spire would disappear, and all her radiant
world be blotted out. Mrs. Manstey sent away untouched the
dinner-tray brought to her that evening. She lingered in the
window until the windy sunset died in bat-colored dusk; then,
going to bed, she lay sleepless all night.

Early the next day she was up and at the window. It was raining,
but even through the slanting gray gauze the scene had its charm--
and then the rain was so good for the trees. She had noticed
the day before that the ailanthus was growing dusty.

"Of course I might move," said Mrs. Manstey aloud, and turning
from the window she looked about her room. She might move, of
course; so might she be flayed alive; but she was not likely to
survive either operation. The room, though far less important to
her happiness than the view, was as much a part of her existence.