Sylvie's ideas did not base themselves on Axminsters now, even if
they might have done so with a two thousand dollar allowance. She
only hoped her mother would not feel as if there were no drawing
room at all, but the whole house had been put up-stairs.

The window draperies were as I have said; there was a large, plain
library table in the middle of the room, with books and baskets and
little easels with pictures, and paper weights and folders, and
other such like small articles of use and grace and cosy expression
lying about upon it, as if people had been there quite a while and
grown at home. There were bronze candelabra on the mantel and upon
brackets each side the bay window. Pictures were already
hung,--portraits, and gifts, not included in the schedule,--a few
nice engravings, and one glowing piece of color, by Mrs. Murray,
which Sylvie said was like a fire in the room.

"I am only afraid it is too fine," said she, replying to Rodney. "I
really want to be like our neighbors,--to _be_ a neighbor. We belong
here now. People should not drop out of the world, between the
ranks, when changes happen; they can't change out of humanity. Do
you know, Mr. Sherrett,--if it wasn't for the thought of my poor
father, and my mother not caring about anything any more,--I know I
should enjoy the chance of being a village girl?"

"You'll be a village girl, I imagine, as your parlor is a village
parlor. All in good faith, but wearing the rue with a difference."

"I don't mean to. I've been thinking,--_ever_ so much, and I've
found out a good many things. It's this not falling _on_ to anything
that keeps people in the misery of falling. I mean to come to land,