Sally had always wondered what was on the other side of the door. She had heard from her father that the rooms were large and that there were many pictures of Miss Winifred’s ancestors hanging on the walls. He had told her there was a portrait of Miss Winifred’s mother over the mantelpiece in the hall. Sally had never seen a picture, and so she looked at them with great interest. So that little girl in a fur cape was Miss Winifred’s mother! How odd it seemed that a lady so old herself had had a mother who was once a little girl! There were other portraits in the parlor and dining-room, all pictures of Miss Winifred’s relations, she was sure. She looked in vain for any pictures of her own ancestors. Surely so many Furbush-Tailbys had lived in the house, she should think Miss Winifred would have framed portraits of them hanging on the walls. Her great-great-grandmother, Martha Furbush-Tailby, would have made a nice picture, and her great-grandfather, William Furbush-Tailby, the poet, would certainly have been an ornament to the walls. And these relations of Miss Mann’s looked so queer in their old-fashioned clothes, while her own ancestors would have looked as much up-to-date as Oxford Gray, Junior, himself, for she had been told they all had the gray tiger markings and broad white shirt-fronts like himself, and every one of them had white feet. And so far as tails were concerned, they were all noted for the fine tiger markings; she herself was proud of her tail. Yes, it would have made the sober green walls of the parlor far pleasanter to look at if there had been portraits there of her ancestors. At last she saw a picture with a house and church in the distance, and there, walking on the grass in the foreground, were two ladies, and a little boy, and a dog. Here at last was an animal. The ladies wore long skirts that trailed on the grass and bonnets that hid their faces, and the little boy wore odd clothes, too, but the dog looked exactly like one that Sally had met in the Wild Wood and scampered away from. ‘Yes,’ said Sally, ‘it only shows how sensible and superior animals are, to be so made that they never have to change with the fashion.’ There was another room that was filled with books. It had a desk in it and Miss Winifred’s typewriter, and a sofa that looked as if it would be a pleasant place for a kitten to take a nap. There were window-seats, too. The sun was pouring in on them. Sally jumped up on one and settled down. The sun felt warm and pleasant on her back. ‘It is a friendly house,’ said Sally. ‘I like it, but some of the pictures would look so much nicer with kittens in them. The little girl with the fur over her shoulders would look much sweeter if she had a kitten in her arms. I am sure she would have loved a nice, furry kitten.’