rooms so changed. The furniture was the
same, but the wall decorations were not.

"What's become of the alum basket and the wax wreath and the Rock of
Ages chromo?" he asked.

"Oh, he took 'em down. That is, he didn't do it himself, of course, but
he had Joel do it. They're up attic. Mr. Phillips said they was so like
the things that his wife used to have in the dear old home that he
couldn't bear to see 'em. They reminded him so of her. He asked if we
would mind if they was removed and we said no, of course."

"Humph! And the Macomber family coffin plates, those you had set out on
black velvet with all Joel's dead relations names on 'em, in the plush
and gilt frame? Are those up attic, too?"

"Yes."

"I should have thought 'twould have broken Joel's heart to part with
_them_!"

"Sears, you're makin' fun. I don't blame you much. I always did hate
those coffin plates, but Joel seemed to like 'em. They were in his
folks' front parlor, he says."

"Yes. That 'Death of Washin'ton' picture and the rounder-case thing with
the locks of hair in it were there, too, you told me once. That must
have been a lively room. Those--er--horse pictures are Egbert's, I
suppose?"

"Yes. He is real fond of horses."

The "horse pictures" were colored plates of racers.

"That's a portrait of his wife over there," explained Sarah. "She had it
painted in Italy on purpose for him."

"Is that so? Well, I'm glad it was for him. I shouldn't think it was
hardly fittin' for anybody outside the family. Of course Italy's a warm
climate, but----"

"_Sears!_" Mrs. Macomber blushed. "Of course I didn't mean _that_
picture," she protested. "And you know I didn't. I wouldn't have that
one up at all if I had _my_ way. But he says it's an old master and very
famous and all like that. Maybe so, but I'm thankful the children ain't
allowed in here. That's Lobelia over there."

In the bedroom were other pictures, photographs for the most part. Many
of them were autographed.

"They're girl friends of his wife's," said Sarah. "She met 'em over
abroad. Real pretty, some of them, ain't they?"

They were, and the inscriptions were delightfully informal and friendly.
Lobelia Phillips' name was not inscribed, but her husband's was
occasionally. Upon the table, by a half-emptied cigar box, lay a Boston
paper of the day before. It was folded with the page of stock market
quotations uppermost. Sears picked it up. One item was underscored with
a pencil.