"Why, I just opened a window to let some light in, so I could see the pictures," he answered.
"Light? In this room? Why, Richard Hamilton! This room hasn't been opened in years! We never think of letting light in the parlor. The carpet might fade. Oh, Richard, I am so sorry! If I thought you would have opened a window I would have locked the door. Shut it and come out at once! Mercy sakes!"
Much abashed, Dick closed the shutters and window and walked out. His aunt ran and got a broom, with which she brushed the carpet where he had stepped, though how she could see any dust in that gloom was more than the boy could understand.
"Never, never go in there again," cautioned his aunt. "We never open that room except—for funerals."
"I guess that's all it's good for," thought Dick.
He sat around, very miserable, the remainder of the afternoon, and had little appetite for supper, which was rather a scant meal; some preserves, bread and weak tea making up the repast.
"I think I'll take a stroll to the village," remarked the youth, as he arose from the table.
"Where?" asked his aunt, as if she had not heard aright.
"To the village. I'd like to see what's going on."
"There's nothing going on," replied his uncle.
