Becky's had been the larger of the two bedrooms in the attic, Adam's the smaller—tucked low under the eaves, and entered by crawling around the big chimney that came bulking up to the light like a great tree caught between house walls. The stairs hugged the chimney and made use of its support. Adam would warm his hands upon it coming down on bitter mornings. From force of habit, Emily Bogardus laid her smooth white hand upon the clammy bricks. No tombstone could be colder than that heart of house warmth now.
The roof of the kitchen chamber had been raised a story higher, and the chimney as it went up contracted to quite a modern size. This elevation gave room for the incongruous tower bedroom that had hurt the symmetry of the old house, spoiled its noble sweep of roof, and given rise to so much unpleasant conjecture as to its use. It was this excrescence, the record of those last unloved and unloving years of her father's life, which Mrs. Bogardus would have removed, but was prevented by her son.
“You go back now, Cerissa,” she said to the panting woman behind her. “I see the key is in the lock. You may send Chauncey after a while; there is no hurry.”
“Oh!” gasped Cerissa. “Do you see that!”
“What?”
“I thought there was something—something behind that slit.”
“There isn't. Step this way. There, can't you see the light?”
Mrs. Bogardus grasped Cerissa by the shoulders and held her firmly in front of a narrow loophole that pierced the partition close beside the door. Light from the room within showed plainly; but it gave an unpleasantly human expression to the entrance, like a furtive eye on the watch.
“He would always be there,” Cerissa whispered.
“Who?”