doesn't
collect. He's on teapots, now. Imagine it--William and teapots! And
they're all there in his rooms--one glorious mass of confusion. Just
fancy those archaeologists trying to make their 'monk' live there!

"But when they reach me, my stratum, they'll have a worse time yet. You
see, _I_ like cushions and comfort, and I have them everywhere. And I
like--well, I like lots of things. My rooms don't belong to that monk,
not a little bit. And so you see," Bertram would finish merrily, "that's
why I call it all 'The Strata.'"

And "The Strata" it was to all the Henshaws' friends, and even to
William and Cyril themselves, in spite of their objection to the term.

From babyhood the Henshaw boys had lived in the handsome, roomy house,
facing the Public Garden. It had been their father's boyhood home, as
well, and he and his wife had died there, soon after Kate, the only
daughter, had married. At the age of twenty-two, William Henshaw, the
eldest son, had brought his bride to the house, and together they had
striven to make a home for the two younger orphan boys, Cyril, twelve,
and Bertram, six. But Mrs. William, after a short five years of married
life, had died; and since then, the house had known almost nothing of a
woman's touch or care.

Little by little as the years passed, the house and its inmates had
fallen into what had given Bertram his excuse for the name. Cyril,
thirty years old now, dignified, reserved, averse to cats, dogs, women,
and confusion, had early taken himself and his music to the peace
and exclusiveness of the fourth floor. Below him, William had long
discouraged any meddling with his precious chaos of possessions, and had
finally come to spend nearly all his spare time among them. This left
Bertram to undisputed ownership of the second floor, and right royally
did he hold sway there with his paints and brushes and easels, his
old armor, rich hangings, rugs, and cushions, and everywhere his
specialty--his "Face of a Girl." From canvas, plaque, and panel they
looked out--those girlish faces: winsome, wilful, pert, demure, merry,
sad, beautiful, even almost ugly--they were all there; and they were
growing famous, too. The world of art was beginning to take notice, and
to adjust its spectacles for a more critical glance. This "Face of a
Girl" by Henshaw bade fair to be worth while.

Below Bertram's cheery second floor were the dim old library and
drawing-rooms, silent, stately, and almost never us