The girl with the broom looked at her visitor in a puzzled way, and began,—“But, lady, I brought that chair here with me only——” But Mrs. Pitt quickly interrupted her, asking some trifling question. Her illusions were not to be disturbed, it seemed, and the girl beat a retreat.
“Well, Mother,” said Philip, “you aren’t the only one who has ever believed in the house! Here in this old Visitors’ Book are the names of Dickens, Longfellow, Holmes, General Grant, Edwin Booth, Mary Anderson, and——”
“Did Anne truly live here?”—Page [164].
“Never mind the rest, Phil; if General Grant said so, it’s true! He knew what he was talking about!” And so John settled the question.
A flag-stone floor is all this little room can boast of, and a low ceiling of huge timbers, but it has an air of homelikeness and cosy comfort, nevertheless. At the windows are flowers which nod to their cousins out in the garden; some gray knitting usually lies on the table; and there is the huge fireplace with all its cranes, different hooks, pots and kettles; and the crowning glory of all, the old oak settle, upon which every visitor religiously seats himself.
“Isn’t there any upstairs?” demanded John, before many minutes.
“Oh, yes! May we go up, please?” Mrs. Pitt asked of the attendant. “Yes, thank you; I know the way, and I’ll be careful.”
So they climbed the rickety stairs, and saw a little bedroom under the eaves, in which stands an old, very forlorn-looking “four-poster.”