"Now it looks as it did fifty years ago," said Cynthia, softly. "Of course, houses were lighted by gas then, but only city ones or those near the city. I know, because I've been asking about it. Other people had to use horrid oil-lamps. But there were some who kept on having candles because they preferred that kind of light—especially in country-houses. And evidently this was one of them."
Joyce eyed her curiously.
"You've certainly been interested in the question of illumination, half a century ago,—but why, Cynthia? I never knew you to go so deeply into anything of this kind before!" Cynthia started, and blushed again.
"Do you think so," she stammered. "Oh, well!—it's only because this—this house has taken hold of me—somehow. I can't get it out of my mind, day or night!"
"Yes," cried Joyce, "and I remember the day when I could hardly induce you to enter it! I just had to pull you in, and you disputed every inch of the way!"
"That's the way with me," returned Cynthia. "I'm not quick about going into things, but once I'm in, you can't get me out! And nothing I ever knew of has made me feel as this house has. Now I'm going to light the candles in the locked-up room."
"That's the one thing I can't understand!" protested Joyce, as they climbed the tiny stairs once more. "You seem perfectly crazy about that room, and it makes me so—so depressed that I hate to go near it! I like the library and the picture of the Lovely Lady best."
There was nothing to do but sit and enjoy the spectacle