chimneys, and long windows that ran from floor to ceiling. Its
stately entrance and its two curving flights of steps were of
white marble, and so were the lintels of the windows; but the
stone was so stained and darkened with smoky years of rains and
river fogs, that its only beauty lay in the noble lines that
grime and time had not been able to destroy. A gnarled and
twisted old wistaria roped the doorway, and, crawling almost to
the roof, looped along the eaves, in May it broke into a froth of
exquisite purple and faint green, and for a week the garland of
blossoms, murmurous with bees, lay clean and lovely against the
narrow, old bricks which had once been painted yellow. Outside,
the house had a distinction which no superficial dilapidation
could mar; but inside distinction was almost lost in the
commonplace, if not in actual ugliness. The double parlors on the
right of the wide hall had been furnished in the complete
vulgarity of the sixties; on the left was the library, which had
long ago been taken by Mrs. Maitland as a bedroom, for the
practical reason that it opened into the dining-room, so her desk
was easily accessible at any time of night, should her passion
for toil seize her after working-hours were over. The walls of
this room were still covered with books, that no one ever read.
Mrs. Maitland had no time to waste on reading; "I _live_,"
she used to say; "I don't read about living!" Except the
imprisoned books, the only interesting things in the room were
some _cartes-de-visite_ of Blair, which stood in a dusty row
on the bureau, one of them propped against her son's first
present to her--the unopened bottle of Johann Maria Farina. When
Blair was a man, that bottle still stood there, the kid cap over
the cork split and yellow, the ribbons of the little calendar
hanging from its green neck, faded to streaky white.