winter. Would you like to
see it? You can if you want."

I thanked her, but thought we had better put off the treat until
another time, as we were on our way to my room. I was wondering how to
define the difference between Patty and Ide. I saw that it was very
marked, yet I didn't quite understand. The two girls appeared to be on
the same footing in the house, I said to myself, but Ide was far more
showy than Patty, seeming to put herself forward, as if she were afraid
of not being noticed, and then she was dressed so much more
elaborately. Perhaps, I thought, Patty was poor, and in a more
dependent position than Ide.

The stairway, very steep and narrow, leads straight up from the
"living-room," which is apparently in the centre of the house and fills
the place of a hall. There are no balusters, but a whitewashed wall on
either side, and only one person can go up at a time. At the top is a
landing, with a bare, painted floor, and doors opening from it. One of
the doors is mine; and as they showed me in I could see that Patty and
Ide both waited breathlessly for my verdict, their faces looking quite
strained and anxious until I exclaimed:

"How fresh and pretty it is here!"

I meant it, too. It is a dear room, with something pathetic about its
simple sweetness, and the kind thought to give me pleasure which shows
in every little innocent detail. The floor is covered with a white
straw matting, and there are no two pieces of furniture that match.
There's a wide, wooden bed of no particular period that I can
recognise, yet with an air of being old-fashioned, and there are stiff,
square shams to hide the pillows and turn down over the top of the
sheet, with fluted frills round the edges. There's a thing covered with
a veneer of mahogany, which I should call a chest of drawers, if Patty
and Ide hadn't mentioned it as a "bureau." A mirror divided into two
halves hangs over it, with a white crocheted cover to protect the gilt
frame from flies; there's a crocheted pin-cushion, too; and in vases
painted by home talent bloom the sweetest grass-pinks I ever smelled.
There are little blue summer houses with pink children and brown dogs
in them, matched all wrong at the edges, on the wall paper; there is a
wash-handstand and a table with a white cover and more flowers; and
that's all except a basket rocking-chair and some hanging shelves; but
the white muslin curtains are tied with blue ribbons, and there's a
hand-braided rug