he coolness of a
new, vigorous world.

In a house just off Fifth Avenue, a short distance from Central Park,
all the windows were open to admit the dazzling sunshine. Soft white
curtains fluttered in the crisp breeze, and the rooms were flooded with
cool, yellow light.

Phyllis Page stood in the center of one of the rooms and looked
critically about her. There was no need of criticism, for it was as
nearly perfect as a room could be.

The walls were hung with dainty pink and white paper. A bed of ivory
white, with carved roses at the head and covered with a sheer
embroidered spread, filled one corner; a tall chest of drawers stood
opposite, and a dressing-table with a triple mirror was placed between
the two windows.

A little to one side of the open grate was a tiny table just large
enough to hold a bowl of pink roses. In all the room not a pin was out
of place.

As Phyllis surveyed it all for perhaps the twentieth time that day, a
look of disappointment cast a momentary shadow over her usually merry
face.

"There isn't one single thing more to do," she complained. "Oh, dear,
I do hope she likes it."

The suggestion of doubt made her hurry to her aunt's room on the floor
below. She found Miss Carter sitting before an open fire reading.

"Auntie Mogs," she said, standing in the doorway, "suppose Janet
doesn't like it? The room, I mean."

There was real concern in her voice, but in spite of it Miss Carter
laughed.

"Why, Phyllis, you little goose, of course she'll like it. It's a dear
room, and it will just suit her exactly. What put such a ridiculous
notion into your head?"

"But, Auntie Mogs, it's so awfully different from her own room,"
Phyllis protested. "Perhaps she'll miss her big four-posted bed and
those ducky rag rugs. I would, I think,"--she hesitated.

Miss Carter laughed again.

"But that's exactly why Janet won't," she answered. "She has grown up
with all those lovely old things and she is used to them. She has
never seen anything like her new room and she will love it, I am sure.
Just as you loved the dear old room we had at her house, only of course
Janet won't go into such ecstasies as you did," she added with a smile.

She pulled her niece down to the arm of her chair and stroked her soft
golden-brown hair. But Phyllis's leaf-brown eyes were still clouded
with doubt.

"I want her to love it, Auntie Mogs," she said softly. "I want her to
love it, and I want her to be h