And yet, in spite of the intervening break, her fate and the room’s fate had fulfilled themselves in time. She had come in the end to the place ordained, just as the changes she had meant for the room had come about. Now it was all scoured clean, painted and stained, with a new iron bed that had full command of its legs, and four little knobs like four little globes of gold. Her second scrubbing had been so thorough that it almost seemed as if there was nothing of the old room left. Even the dust and dimness had had a character of their own, and both of them had been swept away. Even the windows looked a different shape now they were frames for those shining plaques of gold. They were like young eyes now, shining and clear, where before they were ancient and blurred with tears ... eyes with a whole world behind them under the sky, instead of blankness staring at nothing without sight. Yet something lingered that belonged to the old room, something that was perhaps nothing more than a question in the air. That was the reason, perhaps, why she hesitated to call her work complete, since the room seemed to cry upon her for something else. It seemed to be waiting for something to come back; she wondered vaguely if it was the old woman’s shoes. She would have brought them back right willingly if she could, but she had never seen or heard of them since that day. Probably they had gone at the sale, or simply been lost or burnt or thrown away. It was out of the question, anyhow, to think of finding them now. If the room was waiting for that, it would have to do without. She felt sure that, even in its best days, the room had never looked so fine, even in those far-off days when the house had freshened itself for another bride. There might have been curtains, perhaps—perhaps not upstairs—but almost certainly there had been no blinds. Little need for them, indeed, with windows facing the lone sands, and a white-sailed yacht at the flood the only passer-by. And she was certain that, not for years, if ever before, had roses been set upon the sill. There was no doubt, however, that rooms, like folks, were growing smarter with the times. Old as he was, the old man would know that, and would feel, if only unconsciously, the finer touch. He would be proud of a son’s wife who had such ways; straight from his present home, indeed, how could he be anything but proud? And progress and new paint had not harried the old-time peace of the room, nor could she herself have done it real harm. The tradition behind her was too pure for that, the abiding spirit of the house too strong.