yard. The walls and ceiling were of plain, stained wood. One end was entirely taken up by small, built-in
cabinets with wooden doors. There was a mirror on the wall, and it was round-but there any similarity
to Walters' description ended.
There was a fireplace, the kind one can find in any ordinary old New York house. On the walls were a
few prints. The great table, the "baronial board," was an entirely commonplace one, littered with dolls'
clothing in various stages of completion.
My disquietude grew. If Walters had been romancing about this room, then what else in her diary was
invention-or, at least, as I had surmised when I had read it, the product of a too active imagination?
Yet-she had not been romancing about the doll-maker's eyes, nor her voice; and she had not
exaggerated the doll-maker's appearance nor the peculiarities of the niece. The woman spoke, recalling