Here again, there were the wood ceilings and panelled walls, the latter painted white. The great chimney-piece was like its fellow in the dining-room; only the carvings were different: intricate scrollwork and fine groovings. There was a canvas, also, in the marble frame, but it was in a good state of preservation; it showed a walled city on a height and a river far below. I wondered if it could be Quebec. The room was larger than the other, but much cosier in every way. There were a few modern easy chairs, an ample old sofa--swans carved on the back and arms--a large library table of black oak with bevelled edges, also beautifully carved; and around the walls of the room, in every available space, were plain low bookshelves of pine stained to match the table. On the floor were the same woven rugs of rag carpet, unique of design and beautiful in coloring--dark brown, pale yellow, and white, with large squares marked off in narrow lines of rose. The furniture, except for the sofa which was upholstered in faded yellow wool damask, was covered with flowery chintz like that in the dining-room, and at the windows were the same faded yellow hangings. A large black bear skin rug lay before the hearth. There were no ornaments or pictures anywhere. On the mantel were two pots of flourishing English ivy. A stand of geraniums stood before one of the four windows. There were sconces on each side of the chimney-piece, but of gilt bronze. Each was seven-branched, and it was evident that Marie had just lighted all fourteen candles. Mrs. Macleod drew her chair to the hearth, and I took one near her. III "It is a good time to speak of some matters between ourselves; Jamie will not be coming in for an hour at least." She turned and looked at me steadily. "I don't know how much or how little you know of this place, and perhaps it will be best to begin at the beginning. Mrs. Beaseley wrote me you were born in the city of New York." "Yes; twenty-six years ago next December." "So Mrs. Beaseley wrote, or rather her daughter did for her. She said you were an orphan." "Yes." I answered so. How could I answer otherwise knowing what I did? But I felt the blood mount to my temples when I stated this half truth. "You say you do not know Doctor Rugvie?" "No; only of him." "I wish you did." (How could she know that my wish to see him and know him must be far stronger than hers!) "He will be coming out here later on in the winter--are you cold?" she asked quickly, for I had shivered to cover an involuntary start. "No, not at all; but I think it must be growing colder outside."