“Things are sure to come right in the Forest,” she had said to herself again and again.  Not because she believed it, but because she longed to, and sometimes she did believe it,—­just for a little while,—­as she looked from Patricia’s Arbor across to that bit of sunny road.

Since the adventure of the Arden Foresters the cellar windows of the Gilpin house had been securely fastened, and its bolts and bars made proof against more experienced house breakers than they.  And now preparations for the sale became evident.  Circulars containing an inventory of the things to be disposed of were spread abroad, and it was known that the proprietor of the new mills, a stranger in Friendship, had been through the house with the idea of purchasing.

As she unlocked the door of Saint Cecilia’s room, Celia could not help remembering the days when she had looked forward so happily to owning the spinet, and seeing it stand beneath her great-grandmother’s portrait.

From the cushioned window-seat, where there was a glimpse of the river through the trees, she had loved to survey the calm orderliness of the little room.  At heart something of a Puritan, the straight-backed chairs and unreposeful sofa, the secretary with its diamond-paned doors and glass knobs, the quaint old jardinieres brought from China a century ago, pleased her fancy.

How Genevieve Whittredge had smiled and shrugged her shoulders!  In those days their half antagonistic friendship had not suffered a complete break.  She must have color and warmth and lavishness, and Celia acknowledged her unerring taste and admired the beauty and richness Genevieve found necessary to her happiness, even while she returned contentedly to her own prim little room.

It had been her dreaming place, and when dreams were crowded out by an exacting present, she had closed the door and turned the key.  It was so much the less to take care of.

“I don’t see why Mr. Gilpin couldn’t have left you some money,” her mother said, following her.  “It would be such a help just now.  How are we to keep Tom at the university another year?”

Mrs. Fair had a way of bringing up problems just when her daughter had succeeded in putting them aside.

“I think we can manage in some way, mother.  Don’t worry,” she said.

“But some one has to worry.”

“Then let me do it,” Celia answered, smiling.

Half an hour later she was standing by the spinet, absently touching the tuneless keys, when a voice from the window startled her.  It was Morgan, who with his elbows on the sill, was looking in.

“Better sell it, Miss Celia.”

Sell it!  The idea had never occurred to her.  “What could I get for it?” she asked, going to the window.

“Two hundred—­maybe more.”

Two hundred dollars would be a great help toward Tom’s expenses, but to give up her grandmother’s spinet?  It took on a new value.