Mammy was deeply disappointed. For her part she could see nothing the matter with the room. It was exactly as her Miss Julia had left it. It had never been changed even by the second Mrs. De Jarnette. And it was scrupulously clean. She had herself painted the hearth that morning with a preparation of brickdust and milk laid on with a rag, which was supposed in her day to put the finishing touch to an apartment with an open fireplace. "A child ought to have cheerful surroundings and light," Margaret had said, pushing back the heavy curtain. "And this paper! It is enough to give him the horrors." Mammy Cely had never thought any of these things about the room, but the next morning she spoke to Mr. De Jarnette as he was starting to town. "Marse Richard, is it ever occurred to yo' mind that Philip's room ain't no fittin' place fur him to stay?" "No," said Mr. De Jarnette, in surprise. "What is the matter with it?" "That room's too sorrowful lookin' fur a chile, Marse Richard. Hit ought to have some sort of hilarious paper on the walls, and tarletan curtains or somethin' that will let in the sunshine. Yaas, sir. Chil'n needs light, jes' like plants." Mr. De Jarnette listened without replying, but he turned back and went to Philip's room. It certainly was rather a gloomy place, he reflected, though he had never thought of it before. The Brussels carpet was big-figured and dark and worn, the moths having consumed a yard or so around the edge. Loving darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil they had found here a congenial home. Mammy had seen to it that the curtains were closely drawn. He groped his way across the room and shook them impatiently, remembering that a child needed light. They gave out a musty smell. Then he looked at the walls. The paper certainly could not be called hilarious. He looked around the room with a growing discontent and uncertainty of himself. Strange that an old negro should have thought of all this. He could see now that it was no place for a child. But he had been into that room time and again and it had never occurred to _him_. Women seemed to have a sort of instinct for these things. He made no comment when he came down, nor did Mammy Cely. Being wise in her generation she left her seed to germinate. But he said to her one morning a week or two later, "Get the things moved out of Philip's room. I am going to have some work done in it. The men will be out to-day."