visitors peeped into the old library, odorous of unopened books, and
with great curtains of green rep shutting out the light, and into
the music room behind it, cold even on this warm day, with a muffled
grand piano drawn free of the walls, and near it two piano-stools,
upholstered in blue-fringed rep, to match the curtains and chairs.
They went across the hall to the long, dim drawing room, where there
was another velvet carpet, dulled to a red pink by time, and muffled
pompous sofas and chairs, and great mirrors, and "sets" of
candlesticks and vases on the mantels and what-nots. The windows
were shuttered here, the air lifeless. Barry, in George Carew's
interest, felt bound to say that "they would clear all this up, you
know; a lot of this stuff could be stored."

"Oh, why store it? It's perfectly good," the lady answered absently.

Presently they went out to the more cheerful dining-room, which ran
straight across the house, and was low-ceiled, with pleasant square-
paned windows on two sides.

"This was the old house," explained Barry; "they added on the front
part. You could do a lot with this room."

"Do you still smell spice, and apples, and cider here?" said Mrs.
Burgoyne, turning from an investigation of the china-closet, with a
radiant face. A moment later she caught her breath suddenly, and
walked across the room to stand, resting her hands on a chair back,
before a large portrait that hung above the fireplace. She stood so,
gazing at the picture--the portrait of a woman--for a full minute,
and when she turned again to Barry, her eyes were bright with tears.