I had a beautiful room.  It ran half across the front of the house, and had four great windows, a big fire-place, filled in summer with branches of cedar, or bunches of ferns, growing in a low box, and filling the great space with cool green shade, and in winter the delight of the girls, because of the famous hickory fires which blazed there, always ready to light at a touch.

In one corner stood my mahogany desk, above it a lovely picture of the Madonna and Child.  Easy-chairs were standing around, and there were hassocks and ottomans in corners and beside the windows.  My favorite engraving—­a picture representing two children straying near a precipice, fearing no danger, and just ready to fall, when behind them, sweeping softly down, comes their guardian angel—­hung over the mantel.

How much pleasure I took in that room, in the book shelves always full, in the pretty rugs and the cool matting and the dainty drapery, all girls can imagine.  It was my own Snuggery, and I kept it in the loveliest good order, as mother liked me to.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Goodness!” cried Veva, only half awake.

“What is that?  Mice?” said Marjorie, timidly.

“Burglars!” exclaimed Veva.

“Hush, girls!” I said, shaking off my drowsiness.  “It’s poor grandmamma, and she has one of her fearfulest headaches.  It’s two weeks since she had the last, so one may be expected about now.  The tap means, ’Come to me, quickly.’”

I ran to the door, and said, “Coming, grandmamma!” slipped my feet into my soft knitted shoes, and hurried my gray flannel wrapper on, then hastened to her bedside.  I found that grandmamma was not so very ill, only felt unable to get up to breakfast with us, and wanted some gruel made as soon as possible.

“I’ve been waiting to hear some stir in the house,” she said, “but nobody seemed to be awake.  Isn’t it later than usual, girlie?”

I tiptoed over to grandmamma’s mantel, and looked at her little French clock.  It was late!  Eight, and past, and Hetty had not called us.  What could be the matter?

Down I flew to find out what ailed Aunt Hetty.  She was usually an early riser.

Before I reached her room, which was on the same floor with the kitchen, I heard groans issuing from it, and Hetty’s voice saying:  “Dear me!  Oh, dear me!” in the most despairing, agonizing tones.  Hetty always makes the most of a “misery in her bones.”

“What is it, aunty?” I asked, peering into the room, which she would keep as dark as a pocket.

“De misery in my bones, child!  De ole king chills!  Sometimes I’m up!  Sometimes I’m down!”

The bed shook under the poor thing, and I ran out to ask Patrick to go for the doctor, while I made the fire, and called the girls to help prepare breakfast.

First in order after lighting the fire, which being of wood blazed up directly that the match was applied to the kindlings, came the making of the corn-meal gruel.