“We long ago boarded up that door,” she answered.  “It was of very little use to us from our old library.”

“It looked into one of the rooms then?” I persisted, but with a wary gentleness which I felt could not offend.

“No; there is no room there, only a passageway.  But it has closets in it, and we did not like to be seen going to them any time of day.  The door had glass panes in it, you know, just like a window.  It made the relations so intimate with people only a few feet away.”

“Naturally,” I cried, “I don’t wonder you wanted to shut them off if you could.”  Then with a sudden access of interest which I vainly tried to hide, I thought of the closets and said with a smile, “The closets were for china, I suppose; old families have so much china.”

Miss Charity nodded, complacency in every feature; but Miss Thankful thought it more decorous to seem to be indifferent in this matter.

“Yes, china; old pieces, not very valuable.  We gave what we had of worth to our sister when she married.  We keep other things there, too, but they are not important.  We seldom go to those closets now, so we don’t mind the darkness.”

“I—­I dote on old china,” I exclaimed, carefully restraining myself from appearing unduly curious.  “Won’t you let me look at it?  I know that it is more valuable than you think.  It will make me happy for the whole day, if you will let me see these old pieces.  They may not look beautiful to you, you are so accustomed to them; but to me every one must have a history, or a history my imagination will supply.”

Miss Charity looked gently but perceptibly frightened.  She shook her head, saying in her weak, fond tones: 

“They are too dusty; we are not such housekeepers as we used to be; I am ashamed—­”

But Miss Thankful’s peremptory tones cut her short.

“Miss Saunders will excuse a little dust.  We are so occupied,” she explained, with her eye fixed upon me in almost a challenging way, “that we can afford little time for unnecessary housework.  If she wants to see these old relics of a former day, let her.  You, Charity, lead the way.”

I was trembling with gratitude and the hopes I had suppressed, but I managed to follow the apologetic figure of the humiliated old lady with a very good grace.  As we quitted the room we were in, through a door at the end leading into the dark passageway, I thought of the day when, according to Mrs. Packard’s story, Miss Thankful had come running across the alley and through this very place to astound her sister and nephew in the drawing-room with the news of the large legacy destined so soon to be theirs.  That was two years ago, and to-day—­I proceeded no further with what was in my mind, for my interest was centered in the closet whose door Miss Charity had just flung open.

“You see,” murmured that lady, “that we haven’t anything of extraordinary interest to show you.  Do you want me to hand some of them down?  I don’t believe that it will pay you.”