Tears of mortification sprang into my eyes; for I did have a blister and it hurt, though I wouldn’t have acknowledged it for the world! Why can’t girls work as boys can?
“But never mind, Biffkins,” added Dick. “Don’t get discouraged. Just wait till I set my massive brain to work at it—”
“Oh, that’s all that’s necessary!” I retorted, with cutting irony. Really this puzzle was beginning to get on my nerves a little; I wondered that Dick could jest about it when it meant so much to all of us. It showed a heartlessness that I had never suspected in him—an indifference to his family which was really shocking.
I started to say so, but mother cut short the discussion by chasing me before her into the house and up-stairs to her bed-room—a high-ceilinged, deliciously-roomy one, with a great four-poster in one corner, to which one mounted by a little flight of carpet-covered steps. I would have stopped to admire it—for if there is one thing more than any other for which I have a passion, it is old furniture—but mother, lighting a lamp which stood on the dresser—another old-fashioned piece, the golden glow of whose mahogany warmed my heart—bade me sternly to set to work upon my toilet.
“But, oh, mother, what a delightful room!” I cried, struggling with my buttons. “Was it grandaunt’s?”
“No,” said mother, “Aunt Nelson’s bed-room was at the front of the house overlooking the drive. I think it better to leave it undisturbed for the present.”
“Oh, yes,” I agreed, for I knew what mother meant. “But whose room was this?”
“This, Jane says, was the spare room. It hadn’t been opened for months apparently, and smelt dreadfully close; but I dare say we shall do very well. There’s another for Dick just like it across the hall.”
I remembered grandaunt’s aversion to sunlight and fresh air, and did not wonder that the rooms had seemed stuffy. However, the sweet, cool air, blowing through the trees had already banished all that.
“Is Dick’s room furnished like this?” I asked.