chimney.

"Now he KNOWS", said Sara. "And he will come back for the others."

He did come back, and even brought a friend, and the friend went away
and brought a relative, and among them they made a hearty meal over
which they twittered and chattered and exclaimed, stopping every now
and then to put their heads on one side and examine Lottie and Sara.
Lottie was so delighted that she quite forgot her first shocked
impression of the attic. In fact, when she was lifted down from the
table and returned to earthly things, as it were, Sara was able to
point out to her many beauties in the room which she herself would not
have suspected the existence of.

"It is so little and so high above everything," she said, "that it is
almost like a nest in a tree. The slanting ceiling is so funny. See,
you can scarcely stand up at this end of the room; and when the morning
begins to come I can lie in bed and look right up into the sky through
that flat window in the roof. It is like a square patch of light. If
the sun is going to shine, little pink clouds float about, and I feel
as if I could touch them. And if it rains, the drops patter and patter
as if they were saying something nice. Then if there are stars, you
can lie and try to count how many go into the patch. It takes such a
lot. And just look at that tiny, rusty grate in the corner. If it was
polished and there was a fire in it, just think how nice it would be.
You see, it's really a beautiful little room."

She was walking round the small place, holding Lottie's hand and making
gestures which described all the beauties she was making herself see.
She quite made Lottie see them, too. Lottie could always believe in
the things Sara made pictures of.

"You see," she said, "there could be a thick, soft blue Indian rug on
the floor; and in that corner there could be a soft little sofa, with
cushions to curl up on; and just over it could be a shelf full of books
so that one could reach them easily; and there could be a fur rug
before the fire, and hangings on the wall to cover up the whitewash,
and pictures. They would have to be little ones, but they could be
beautiful; and there could be a lamp with a deep rose-colored shade;
and a table in the middle, with things to have tea with; and a little
fat copper kettle singing on the hob; and the bed could be quite
different. It could be made soft and covered with a lovely silk
coverlet. It could be beautiful. And perhap