to Beth, and
here she worked or rested; read, wrote, or reflected, as she felt
inclined; soothed rather than disturbed by the far-off sounds of the
city, and eased in mind by the grace and beauty of her surroundings.
For the room was a work of art in itself, an Adams room, with carved
white panels, framing spaces of rich brocade, delicately tinted, on
the walls; with furniture chosen for comfort as well as elegance, and
no more of it than was absolutely necessary, no crowding of chairs and
tables, no congestion of useless ornaments, no plethora of pictures,
putting each other out--only two, in fact, one a summer seascape, with
tiny waves bursting on shining sands; the other a corner of a
beautiful old garden, shady with trees, glowing with flowers, whence
two young lovers, sitting on an old stone seat, looked out with dreamy
eyes on a bright glimpse, framed in foliage, of the peaceful country
beyond. Angelica had thought that room out carefully for Beth, every
detail being considered, so that the whole should make for rest and
refreshment, and she had succeeded perfectly. Nothing could have eased
Beth's mind of the effect of her late experiences, or strengthened it
again more certainly, than the harmony, the quiet, and the convenience
of everything about her--books on the shelves, needlework on the
work-table, writing materials in abundance on the bureau, exquisite
forms of flowers, and prevailing tints of apple-blossom, white, and
pink, and green; music when she chose to play; comfort of couch and
chairs when she wished to repose; and, above all, freedom from
intrusion, the right to do as she liked gladly conceded, the respect
which adds to the dignity of self-respect, and altogether the kind of
independence that makes most for pleasure and peace. Before she had
been there three weeks she was happily released from herself by the
recovery of her power to work. She began to revise the book she had
thought so little of when it was first written. She had brought it to
town because it was not very bulky, rather than because she had any
hope of it; but when she took it out and read it here alone in peace,
it seized upon her with power, and, in her surprise, like Galileo, she
exclaimed: "But it does turn round!" The book was already "radiant
with inborn genius," but it still lacked the "acquired art," and
feeling this, she sat down to it regularly, and rewrote it from
beginning to end, greatly enriching it. She had no amateur