At the house Betty leaned forward for an admiring glance at the tall white pillars, all wreathed and festooned in their green lacework of vines.  “Oh, I know this place,” she cried.  “It is in my Pilgrim’s Progress, where Christian stopped awhile on his way to the City of the Shining Ones.  It is the House Beautiful!”

“What odd fancies you have!” exclaimed Lloyd, stepping out of the carriage as she spoke.  “But it is dear of you to give the place such a sweet name.  Come on up and see your room.  After you have rested awhile I’ll take you all over the house.”

As they went down the wide, airy hall, Betty had a glimpse of the drawing-room through the open doors.  In a confused way she noticed mirrors and statuary and portraits, handsome old furniture and rare pieces of bric-a-brac; but one thing caught her attention so that she stood a moment in round-eyed admiration.  It was a large harp, whose gracefully curving frame gleamed through the shadowy room like burnished gold.  Fair and tall it stood, as if its strings had just been swept by some of the Shining Ones beyond, who were a part of the Pilgrim’s dream.

“What did you say?” asked Lloyd, hearing her cry of admiration, and looking back to see Betty standing in the open door with clasped hands.  “Oh, that is grandmothah’s harp.  I am learning to play on it to please grandfathah.  I’ll teach you some chords while you are heah, if you want me to.  Come on.”

At the landing where the stairs turned, Betty stopped again, for there was a great casement window looking out into a beech-grove, and under it a cosy cushioned window-seat, where some one had evidently been reading.  There were books and magazines scattered all among the pillows.

“Heah is yo’ room!” cried Lloyd, throwing open a door at the head of the stairs, and leading the way in.  Betty followed, her sunbonnet in her hand, and looked around her like one in a dream.  She had never imagined a room could be so beautiful.  If Lloyd could have known what a contrast it was to the bare little west gable at the cuckoo’s nest, she could have better understood the wonder in Betty’s face.

“My room is pink, and Eugenia’s green, and Joyce’s blue,” explained Lloyd.  “Mothah thought you would like this white and gold one best, ’cause it’s like a daisy field.”

Before Betty could express her admiration, Mrs. Sherman came in with an old coloured woman whom she called Mom Beck, and who, she told Betty, had been her own nurse as well as Lloyd’s.  “And she is anxious to see you,” added Mrs. Sherman, “for she remembers your mamma so well.  Many a time she helped dress her when she was a little girl no larger than you, and came home with me for a visit.  She’ll bring you some milk or iced tea, and fix your bath when you are ready for it.  We are going to leave you now for a little while and see if you can’t have a nice little nap.  It has been a long, tiresome journey, and you need the rest more than you realise.”