And oh, the difference in her room and the room I had left!  She had had it painted and papered herself, for it hadn’t been used since kingdom come, and the cobwebs in it would have filled a barrel.  It had been a packing-room, and when Miss Katherine first saw it she just whistled soft and easy; but when she was through, it was just a dream.

It is a big room at the end of the wing, and it has three windows in it:  one in the front and one in the back and one opposite the door you come in.  And when the paper was put on you felt like you were in a great big garden of roses; pink roses, for they were running all over the walls, and they were so natural I could smell them.  I really could.

Miss Katherine brought her own furniture and things, and she put a carpet on the floor, all over, not just strips.  And the windows had muslin curtains at them with cretonne curtains just full of pink roses, looped back from the muslin ones; and the couch and the cushions and some chairs were all covered with the same kind of pink roses.  And as for the bed, it was too sweet for anybody to lie on—­that is, for anybody but Miss Katherine to lie on.

There was a big closet for her clothes, and a writing-desk which had been in the family a hundred years—­maybe a thousand.  I don’t know.  And one side of the room was filled with books in shelves which old Peter Sands made and painted white for her.  She lets me look at them as much as I want, and says I can read as many as I choose when I am old enough to understand them.  She didn’t mention any time to begin trying to understand, and so I started at once, and I’ve read about forty already.

There aren’t a great many pictures on Miss Katherine’s walls.  Just a few besides the portraits of her father and mother, oil paintings.  And oh, dear children what are to be, I’m going to have my picture painted as soon as I marry your father, so you can know what I looked like in case I should die without warning.  I want you to have it, knowing so well what it means to have nothing that belonged to your mother, I not having anything—­not even a strand of hair or a message.

Sometimes I wonder if I ever really did have a Mother, or if the doctor just left me somewhere and nobody wanted me.  I must have had one, for Betty Johnson says a baby’s bound to.  That a father isn’t so specially necessary, but you’ve got to have a Mother.  Mine died when I was born.  I wonder how that happened when there wasn’t anybody in all this great big earth to take care of me except my father, who didn’t know how.  He died, too, and then I was an Orphan.

This is a strange world, and it’s better not to try to understand things.

In the winter time Miss Katherine always has a beautiful crackling fire in her room, and some growing flowers and green things.  It was a revelation to the girls, her room was.  Not fine, and it didn’t cost much, but you felt nicer and kinder the minute you went in it.  And it made Mrs. Reagan’s grand parlors seem like shining brass and tinkling cymbals.  I wonder why?