“I was going to say,” Arthur went on, “except out of doors in the woods.”
“Now which shall I show you first,” Maida asked, “the boys’ rooms or the girls’ rooms?” She did not wait for an answer. “Come on girls,” she continued in a tone of resignation. “We’ve got to show the boys their place first. They won’t look at anything until they’ve seen them!”
The procession moved toward the barn.
The lower floor—roomy, raftered, sweet-smelling—was empty except for the canoes; a small run-about; the bicycles; a phonograph; a big chest; garden tools. Maida led the way to the second floor. The railed stairway ran close to the side of the barn, brought them through a square opening in the ceiling, into another big room—the second story. Here, in each of three corners, were army cots; beside each cot, a tall chiffonier. On top of each chiffonier were toilet articles in a simple style; beside each chiffonier a chair.
“That’s your bathroom over there.” Maida pointed to the fourth corner which was partitioned off. “It has a shower. I don’t expect you’ll use it much because we’ll be bathing every day in the Magic Mirror. You hang your clothes on hooks behind these curtains. You see you each have a closet of your own.”
The boys were of course opening chiffonier drawers; pulling aside curtain-draped closets; examining the shower. Their curiosity appeased, they made for down-stairs—and the canoes.
“Now while you boys are examining the barn, would you girls like to explore upstairs in the house?” Maida asked.
“I’m just dying to see my own room,” Laura declared firmly.
The two girls pelted across the lawn in the wake of Maida’s eager footsteps. They ran up the tiny steep flight of stairs, exactly opposite the little vestibule entrance. It brought them into a small hall from which opened four small slant-roofed chambers.
“This is my room,” Maida said, pointing to one of the south chambers—the back room on the right of the stairs. “I have always slept there when we have been in the house. I love it because of the great tree outside my window. I have always called this tree, Mother Nature, to go with Father Time. So you see I have a father tree and a mother tree! When there’s a storm the boughs make such a sweet sound rubbing against my walls. And often little twigs tap on my window, and sometimes it sounds exactly as though the leaves were whispering to me.”