eastern turret that attracted her specially. It contained an old
spinet, and above it the picture of a young girl; a face of
melancholy, tender beauty, with that far-off look, which the French
call _predestinee_, in the solemn eyes.

It is folly to say that furniture has no expression; the small couch,
the faded work-table, the straight chairs, with their twisted
attenuated legs, had an unspeakable air of sadness. One day she
cautiously touched the notes of the instrument. How weak and thin and
hollow they were! And yet they blended perfectly with something in
her own heart. She played till the tears were on her cheeks, it seemed
as if the sorrowful echoes had found in her soul the conditions for
their reproduction. When she went back to her own room the influence
of the one she had left followed her like a shadow.

"How can I bring one room into another?" she asked herself, and she
flung wide the large windows and let the sunshine flood the pink
chintzes and the blooming roses of her own apartment. There was a tap
at the door, and Elizabeth entered.

"I have brought you a cup of tea, Phyllis. Shall I drink mine beside
you?"

"I shall enjoy both your company and the tea. I think I have been in
an unhappy room and caught some of its spirit--the room with the old
spinet in it."

"Aunt Lucy's room. Yes, she was very unhappy. She loved, and the man
was utterly unworthy of her love! She died slowly in that room--a
wasted life."