Veronica’s room was like no other place.  I was in a new atmosphere there.  A green carpet covered the floor, and the windows had light blue silk curtains.

“Green and blue together, Veronica?”

“Why not?  The sky is blue, and the carpet of the earth is green.”

“If you intend to represent the heavens and the earth here, it is very well.”

The paper on the wall was ash-colored, with penciled lines.  She had cloudy days probably.  A large-eyed Saint Cecilia, with white roses in her hair, was pasted on the wall.  This frameless picture had a curious effect.  Veronica, in some mysterious way, had contrived to dispose of the white margin of the picture, and the saint looked out from the soft ashy tint of the wallpaper.  Opposite was an exquisite engraving, which was framed with dark red velvet.  At the end of an avenue of old trees, gnarled and twisted into each other, a man stood.  One hand grasped the stalk of a ragged vine, which ran over the tree near him; the other hung helpless by his side, as if the wrist was broken.  His eyes were fixed on some object behind the trees, where nothing was visible but a portion of the wall of a house.  His expression of concentrated fury—­his attitude of waiting—­testified that he would surely accomplish his intention.

“What a picture!”

“The foliage attracted me, and I bought it; but when I unpacked it, the man seemed to come out for the first time.  Will you take it?”

“No; I mean to give my room a somnolent aspect.  The man is too terribly sleepless.”

A table stood near the window, methodically covered with labelled blank-books, a morocco portfolio, and a Wedgewood inkstand and vase.  In an arch, which she had manufactured from the space under the garret stairs, stood her bed.  At its foot, against the wall, a bunch of crimson autumn leaves was fastened, and a bough, black and bare, with an empty nest on it.

“Where is the feminine portion of your furnishing?”

“Look in the closet.”

I opened a door.  What had formerly been appropriated by mother to blankets and comfortables, she had turned into a magazine of toilet articles.  There were drawers and boxes for everything which pertained to a wardrobe, arranged with beautiful skill and neatness.  She directed my attention to her books, on hanging shelves, within reach of the bed.  Beneath them was a small stand, with a wax candle in a silver candlestick.

“You read o’ nights?”

“Yes; and the wax candle is my pet weakness.”

“Have you put away Gray, and Pope, and Thomson?”

“The Arabian Nights and the Bible are still there.  Mother thought you would like to refurnish your room.  It is the same as when we moved, you know.”

“Did she?  I will have it done.  Good-by.”

“Good-by.”

She was at the window now, and had opened a pane.

“What’s that you are doing?”