"Why, 'tain't been on more 'n two weeks," she began; and then
remembrance awoke in her, and she stopped. It was not the scene of
their refuge and conflict that must be considered; it was the house of
fancy built by each unto herself. Invention did not come easily to her
as yet, and she spoke with some hesitation.

"I've had it in mind myself quite a spell, but somehow I 'ain't been
able to fix on the right sort o' paper."

"What do you say to a kind of a straw color, all lit up with tulips?"
inquired Mrs. Blair; triumphantly.

"Ain't that kind o' gay?"

"Gay? Well, you want it gay, don't ye? I dunno why folks seem to think
they've got to live in a hearse because they expect to ride in one!
What if we be gittin' on a little mite in years? We ain't underground
yit, be we? I see a real good ninepenny paper once, all covered over
with green brakes. I declare if 'twa'n't sweet pretty! Well, whether I
paper or whether I don't, I've got some thoughts of a magenta sofy. I'm
tired to death o' that old horsehair lounge that sets in my clock-room.
Sometimes I wish the moths would tackle it, but I guess they've got
more sense. I've al'ays said to myself I'd have a magenta sofy when I
could git round to it, and I dunno's I shall be any nearer to it than I
be now."

"Well, you _are_ tasty," said Miss Dyer, in some awe. "I dunno how you
come to think o' that!"

"Priest Rowe had one when I wa'n't more 'n twenty. Some o' his