"Now, then," he said, slipping off his seat a few minutes later; "I've
had enough. Can I go and look at it?"

Dawson nodded and led the way, looking more mysterious and important
than ever. He began to be very much interested indeed.

When she opened the door of the room, he stood upon the threshold and
looked about him in amazement. He did not speak; he only put his hands
in his pockets and stood there flushing up to his forehead and looking
in.

He flushed up because he was so surprised and, for the moment, excited.
To see such a place was enough to surprise any ordinary boy.

The room was a large one, too, as all the rooms seemed to be, and it
appeared to him more beautiful than the rest, only in a different way.
The furniture was not so massive and antique as was that in the rooms
he had seen downstairs; the draperies and rugs and walls were brighter;
there were shelves full of books, and on the tables were numbers of
toys,--beautiful, ingenious things,--such as he had looked at with
wonder and delight through the shop windows in New York.

"It looks like a boy's room," he said at last, catching his breath a
little. "Whom do they belong to?"

"Go and look at them," said Dawson. "They belong to you!"

"To me!" he cried; "to me? Why do they belong to me? Who gave them to
me?" And he sprang forward with a gay little shout. It seemed almost
too much to be believed. "It was Grandpapa!" he said, with his eyes as