“Oh, yes,” said Pansy cheerfully; “and I’ve got a big tub over home that I want to bring; it has an orange tree planted in it.”

“With oranges on?”

“Oh, no, not oranges; indeed, it hasn’t any leaves on, but I think maybe they’ll come.”

“It must be beautiful!” said Patty.  “But if it hasn’t any leaves on, it’s probably dead.”

“Oh, no, Miss Patty, it isn’t dead; and it had leaves a-plenty, but my little brother he picked the leaves all off.  That’s one reason I wanted to come here, so’s to get my orange tree away from Jack.”

“Well, bring it along,” said Patty good-naturedly.  “What else are you going to have?  A grape-vine, I suppose, trained over the headboard of your bed.”

“No, Miss Patty, I haven’t got no grapevine, but I’ve got a wandering-jew-vine in a pot, that I want to set on the mantel.”

“All right,” said Patty, “bring your wandering-jew, and let him wander wherever he likes.  You’ll have to keep your door shut, or he’ll wander out and run downstairs.  What’s in that bag?”

“Rocks, Miss Patty.”

“Rocks?  What in the world are you going to do with those?”

“I’m going to make a rockery, ma’am, by the window.  They’re just beautiful.  Miss Powers has one in her parlour, and I always wanted one, but mother wouldn’t let me have it, ’cause she says it clutters.”

“But, what is it?” said Patty.  “How do you make it?”

“Oh, you just pile the stones up in a heap, and you stick dried grasses, and autumn leaves and things, in them; and, if ever you have any flowers, you know, you stick them in, too.”

“I see; it must be very effective; and sometimes I can give you flowers for it, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Miss Patty; I hope you will.  Oh, I’ll be so glad to have it; I’ve been saving these stones for it for years.  You see, they’re beautiful stones.”

Pansy Potts was on her knees arranging the stones, many of which were jagged pieces of quartz shining here and there with mica scales, into a symmetrical pile, which somehow had the effect of a Pagan altar.

“Well,” said Patty, as she watched her, “I don’t think you’ll need any of the decorations I expected to give you.”

“Oh, Miss Patty,” said Pansy earnestly, “please don’t make me have pictures, and pincushions, and vases, and all those things; I like my own things so much better.”

“You shall fix your room just as you choose,” said Patty kindly; “and if I can help you in any way, I’ll be glad to do so.  How are you progressing, Mancy?”

Patty stepped across the hall to her cook’s room, and found its stout occupant rather precariously perched on a chair, tacking up a picture.  She had evidently improved her time, for many other pictures were already in place, and, what is unusual in either a public or private art-gallery, the pictures were all exactly alike.  They were large, very highly coloured, unframed, and, in fact, were nothing more or less than advertisements of a popular soap.  The subject was a broadly-grinning old coloured woman, washing clothes, that were already snow-white, in a sea of soapsuds.