hen Elizabeth first went into the room she could see nothing. The window-blinds were tightly closed, and the lack of sunlight out of doors made it doubly dark within. She had no thought of fear, however, as she stood motionless for a moment on the inner side of the forbidden door. The dark had never any terrors for Elizabeth, and her one feeling was that of elation that her curiosity was at last to be gratified.
What great secret was she at last to discover in this mysterious chamber?
Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the dim twilight. She found her way to one of the windows and opened the slats of the shutters, letting in the cool damp air, and relieving the close, musty atmosphere of the unused room. Then she looked about her and exclaimed aloud with admiration.
It was, beyond doubt, the prettiest room in her aunt's house.
A dainty dressing-table stood between the windows, and the little bed in the corner was hung with white drapery, now fast yellowing with age. The wall was covered with an exquisite paper of delicate tints, and soft rugs lay on the floor. In the corner was a pretty desk, with a sheet of paper lying on it, and a pen, evidently thrown down in haste. Everything in the room had the appearance of having been untouched since the former owner left it, and was covered with a thick coating of dust.
On the dressing-table was a pile of unopened letters. Elizabeth looked at them, and found that all but two of them were addressed in the same hand to "Miss Herrick, No. — South Fourth Street, Philadelphia." There were seven altogether; and the remaining two bore the name of her father, Mr. Edward Herrick.
How did they get to this room? And how very strange that neither her father nor her aunt had opened them. The seals had not been touched.
Very soon Elizabeth made another discovery more startling still. Near one of the windows stood an easel such as artists use for their work, and on it was a canvas, its back turned toward the room. Elizabeth dearly loved pictures, and she carefully lifted this one down and, turning it toward the light, looked at it. It was an unfinished portrait of her aunt Caroline.
The child surveyed it for some minutes, and then replaced it on the easel as she had found it. What could it all mean? Who had once lived in this mysterious apartment? It could not have been her father, for she had frequently been in the room that was formerly his. She had never heard of any one else in the family. She must certainly ask her aunts if they had ever used any rooms but those they now occupied.