id.

"What a beast I was to write that thing to you," he cried. "I came down
here to tell you that I am sorry. I don't want you to live here, Anne. It
is--"

"Ah, but I am here," she said, "and here I shall stay. We have done
wonders with the place. You will not recognise it,--not a single corner of
it, Braden. It was all very well as the home of a lonely old man who loved
it, but it was not quite the place for a lonely young woman who hated it.
Come! Let me show you the library. It is finished. I think you will say it
is a woman's room now and not a man's. Some of the rooms upstairs are
still unfinished. My own room is a joy. Everything is new and--"

"Anne," he broke in, almost harshly, "it will come to nothing, you may as
well know the truth now. It will save you a great deal of unhappiness, and
it will allow you to look elsewhere for--"

"Come into the library," she interrupted. "I already have had a great deal
of unhappiness in that room, so I fancy it won't be so hard to hear what
you have come to say to me if you say it to me there."

He followed her to the library door, and there stopped in amazement,
unwilling to credit his eyes. He was looking into the brightest, gayest
room he had ever seen. An incredible transformation had taken place. The
vast, stately, sober room had become dainty, exquisite, enchanting. Here,
instead of oppressive elegance, was the most delicate beauty; here was
exemplified at a glance the sweet, soft touch of woman in contrast to the
heavy, uncompromising hand of man. Here was sweetness and freshness, and
the sparkle of youth, and gone were the grim things of age. Here was light
and happiness, and the fragrance of woman.

"In heaven's name, what _have_ you done to this room?" he cried. "Am I in
my right senses? Can this be my grandfather's house?"

She smiled, and did not answer. She was watching his face with eager,
wistful eyes.

"Why, it's--it's unbelievable," he went on, an odd tremor in his voice. "It
is wonderful. It is--why, it is beautiful, Anne. I could not have dreamed
that such a change,--What has become of everything? What have you done with
all the big, clumsy, musty things that--"

"They are in a storage warehouse," said she crisply. "There isn't so much
as a carpet-tack left of the old regime. Everything is gone. Every single
thing that was here with your grandfather is gone. I alone am left. When I
came down here two months ago the place was filled with the thing