small replica of one of the lovely Colonial chandeliers in Independence Hall at Philadelphia, and when I
bought the house I would not allow it to be taken down, nor even be wired for electric bulbs. My bed is
at the end of the room, and when I turn upon my left side I can see the windows outlined by faint
reflections. The same reflections are caught by the prisms so that the chandelier becomes a nebulously
glimmering tiny cloud. It is restful, sleep-inducing. There is an ancient pear tree in the garden, the last
survivor of an orchard which in spring, in New York's halcyon days, lifted to the sun its flowered arms.
The chandelier is just beyond the foot of the bed. The switch which controls my lights is at the head of my
bed. At the side of the room is an old fireplace, its sides of carved marble and with a wide mantel at the
top. To visualize fully what follows, it is necessary to keep this arrangement in mind.
By the time I had undressed, Braile, evidently assured of my docility, had closed the door and gone back