One
end was curtained off as a bedroom, and she smiled at its austere
simplicity.
A gable in the middle made a sunny recess, where were stored bags
and boxes of seed, bunches of herbs, and shelves full of those tiny
pots in which baby plants are born and nursed till they can grow
alone.
The west end was evidently the study, and here Christie took a good
look as she dusted tidily. The furniture was nothing, only an old
sofa, with the horsehair sticking out in tufts here and there; an
antique secretary; and a table covered with books. As she whisked
the duster down the front of the ancient piece of furniture, one of
the doors in the upper half swung open, and Christie saw three
objects that irresistibly riveted her eyes for a moment. A broken
fan, a bundle of letters tied up with a black ribbon, and a little
work-basket in which lay a fanciful needle-book with "Letty"
embroidered on it in faded silk.
"Poor David, that is his little shrine, and I have no right to see
it," thought Christie, shutting the door with self-reproachful
haste.
At the table she paused again, for books always attracted her, and
here she saw a goodly array whose names were like the faces of old
friends, because she remembered them in her father's library.
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