After the product had been broken and been piled on dishes, all
trooped to the informal "back sitting-room," where an open fire
invited to stories and games of the quieter sort. Some of the girls
sat in chairs, though most joined the men on the hearth.

Carroll Bishop, however, seemed possessed of a spirit of
restlessness. The place seemed to interest her. She wandered here
and there in the room, looking now at the walnut-framed photograph
of Uncle Jim Orde, now at the great pink conch shells either side
the door, now at the marble-topped table with its square paper-
weight of polished agate and its glass "bell," beneath which stood a
very life-like robin. This "back sitting-room" contained little in
the way of ornament. It was filled, on the contrary, with old
comfortable chairs, and worn calf-backed books. The girl peered at
the titles of these; but the gas-jets had been turned low in favour
of the firelight, and she had to give over the effort to identify
the volumes. Once she wandered close to Grandma Orde's cushioned
wooden rocker, and passed her hand lightly over the old lady's
shoulder.

"Do you mind if I look at things?" she asked. "It's so dear and
sweet and old and different from our New York homes."

"Look all you want to, dearie," said Grandma Orde.

After a moment she passed into the dining-room. Here Orde found
her, her hands linked in front of her.

"Oh, it is so quaint and delightful," she exhaled slowly. "This
dear, dear old house with its low ceilings and its queer haphazard