Kitty turned to the right, and entered the room she loved best in the world. Shabby, Mrs. Sharpe called the sitting room of Ross House. If it was shabby, no one but Mrs. Sharpe knew it. The rugs were worn, it is true, the original patterns lost in a warm blending of reds and blues, but they were still thick and soft, and only Sarepta knew of the mended places. The wallpaper had not been changed since the memory of man. Why should it be, when it was in perfect condition? And how much of it was visible anyhow? Mellow, rich, warm: one sought for other kindred words, feeling the friendly harmony of everything from the Piranesi etchings to the books which lined half the walls and lay on every available flat surface. The fireplace occupied most of one side, the fire leaped and crackled behind the high fender--not so high as it used to be, Kitty, when you and Tom "stumped" each other to climb on it and grimace at your reflections in the round balls of the andirons. A leather sofa stood before the fireplace: well! I grant that the sofa was shabby, but who cared? Never was another, old or new, to compare with it in comfort. Kitty sank down on it now, and stretched her hands to the blaze, and made a little sound, half moan, half coo, of utter thankfulness. Sarepta, erect in the doorway, hands folded over her spotless apron, had the air of waiting for something. Presently Kitty spoke over her shoulder, her eyes still fixed on the fire. "She didn't suffer at all, Sarepta!" Sarepta grunted. "She just faded away quietly, like a flower. It was like--do you remember how I used to put the hollyhocks in the little black pool, under the trees? They didn't wither or crumple up, they just grew more transparent, day by day, till at last they seemed almost to melt into the water: it was more like that than anything else." Sarepta grunted again. "Got your feet wet reg'lar every time you did it!" she said. "She knew she was going," the clear lovely voice went on, as if repeating a lesson. "She asked me to--to leave her there, among the flowers: she was so tired, she thought it would trouble her in heaven to know that--it--was being carried about. And then--she said--'Go home, darling! Go home to--Sarepta and John Tucker: they will--take--care--'" The clear voice faltered, broke: Sarepta Darwin threw her apron over her head and went away. An hour later, a composed and cheerful Kitty was greeting Nelly Chanter, who came in rosy and breathless as usual, full of tender incoherence. "Darling Kitty! so heavenly of Sarepta to ask me to come! I _didn't_ mean to be--oh, Kitty, you are home again! I thought you _never_--what a perfectly delicious kitten!"