The kitchen was not very large, but looked so cheerful, that it always reminded me of Alice. The walls of the ground floor of the house were founded on some tiers of massy stonework, and I suppose that gave it a look of warmth and stability--and in the side of the room, which was of this same old masonry almost to the roof, there was a little high window with an arched top, which threw a strange stream of sunlight into the room, and constantly annoyed Alice, in the summer, by putting out her fire. There was no sun to put out anybody's fire to-day, but the rain beat against the panes instead, and the high straggling head of a withered hollyhock nodded at the window-sill, with the dreariest impertinence. In the breadth of the kitchen, however, looking out on the garden, was a broad low lattice, quite uncurtained, which gave the fullest light of which the day was capable to this cheerful apartment; and at the great table which stood by it, Alice was standing making some delicate cakes, in the manufacture of which she excelled. I came up to her hastily, and threw myself upon the wooden chair beside her. I was full of those endless metaphysical inquiries which youth--and especially youth that has nothing to do, abounds in--what was life for--what was it--what was the good of me, my particular self, and for what purpose did I come into the world? Before now, I had poured my questionings into the ears of Alice, but Alice was very little moved by them, I am constrained to say. "Have you done, Miss Hester?" said Alice, for I had taken her into my counsels to discuss the momentous question of the doll's costume, and of what period it was to be. "Oh, yes! I am done," said I; "only think, Alice, nothing better to do all this morning than dress a doll; and now I have nothing at all to do." "Dear Miss Hester, you never can want plenty of things to amuse you," said Alice; "don't speak to me so--it's unkind to your papa." "I don't want things to amuse me," said I, "I want something to do, Alice. What is the use of me--it is very well for you--you are always busy--but I want to know what's the good of me!" "You must not say that, dear! don't now," said Alice, "you're but a child--you're only coming to your life--" "I don't think life is much better, Alice," said I. "Mr. Osborne and my father dispute for hours about passages in Greek books; are books life? I don't think there's any satisfaction in them, more than in dressing a doll." "You did not think so on Tuesday night, my dear," said Alice quietly, "when the light was in your window half through the night, and I know you were sitting up reading one." "Ah! but that was a novel," I cried, starting up, "that is the very thing! May I send Mary to the library? I will have one to-day." So I ran up stairs to make a list of certain desirable volumes, and sent off Mary forthwith; then I returned to the table, where Alice made her cakes, and to my wooden chair.