I opened a door. What had formerly been appropriated by mother to blankets and comfortables, she had turned into a magazine of toilet articles. There were drawers and boxes for everything which pertained to a wardrobe, arranged with beautiful skill and neatness. She directed my attention to her books, on hanging shelves, within reach of the bed. Beneath them was a small stand, with a wax candle in a silver candlestick.
"You read o' nights?"
"Yes; and the wax candle is my pet weakness."
"Have you put away Gray, and Pope, and Thomson?"
"The Arabian Nights and the Bible are still there. Mother thought you would like to refurnish your room. It is the same as when we moved, you know."
"Did she? I will have it done. Good-by."
"Good-by."
She was at the window now, and had opened a pane.
"What's that you are doing?"
"Looking through my wicket."