landscape through it. And it would let in the splendour of sunset. To the right was a view of the hillside along which West Shrewsbury straggled: the hill was dotted with lights in the autumn dusk, and had a fairy-like loveliness. Somewhere near by there was a drowsy twittering, as of little, sleepy birds swinging on a shadowy bough.
“Oh, this is beautiful,” breathed Emily, bending out to drink in the balsam-scented air. “Father told me once that one could find something beautiful to love everywhere. I'll love this.”
Aunt Ruth poked her head in at the door, unannounced.
“Em’ly, why did you leave that antimacassar crooked on the sofa in the dining-room?”
“I—don’t—know,” said Emily confusedly. She hadn’t even known she had disarranged the antimacassar. Why did Aunt Ruth ask such a question, as if she suspected her of some dark, deep, sinister design?
“Go down and put it straight.”
As Emily turned obediently Aunt Ruth exclaimed,
“Em’ly Starr, put that window down at once! Are you crazy?”
“The room is so close,” pleaded Emily.
“You can air it in the daytime but never have that window open after sundown. I am responsible for your health now. You must know that consumptives have to avoid night air and draughts.”
“I’m not a consumptive,” cried Emily rebelliously.
“Contradict, of course.”
“And if I were, fresh air any time is the best thing for me. Dr. Burnley says so. I hate being smothered.”
““Young people think old people to be fools and old people know young people to be fools.’” Aunt Ruth felt that the proverb left nothing to be said. “Go and straighten that antimacassar, Em’ly.”
“Em’ly” swallowed something and went. The offending antimacassar was mathematically corrected.
Emily stood for a moment and looked about her. Aunt
