She tried the door. The latch clicked and the door swung open. Helen stepped into a narrow, hall-like room, well furnished with old-fashioned furniture (probably brought from below stairs when Mr. Starkweather re-decorated the mansion) with one window in it. The door which evidently gave upon the remainder of the suite was closed. As Helen listened, however, from behind this closed door came a cheerful, cracked voice--the same voice she had heard whispering the lullaby in the middle of the night. But now it was tuning up on an old-time ballad, very popular in its day: "Wait till the clouds roll by, Jennie-- Wait till the clouds roll by! Jennie, my own true loved one-- Wait till the clouds roll by." "She doesn't sound like a hopeless prisoner," thought Helen, with surprise. She waited a minute longer and, as the thin yet still sweet voice stopped, Helen knocked timidly on the inner door. Immediately the voice said, "Come in, deary. 'Tis not for the likes of you to be knockin' at old Mary's door. Come in!" Helen turned the knob slowly and went into the room. The moment she crossed the threshold she forgot the clouds and rain and gloominess which had depressed her. Indeed, it seemed as though the sun must be ever shining into this room, high up under the roof of the Starkweather mansion. In the first place, it was most cheerfully papered and painted. There were pretty, simple, yellow and white hangings. The heavier pieces of old furniture had gay "tidies" or "throws" upon them to relieve the sombreness of the dark wood. The pictures on the walls were all in white or gold frames, and were of a cheerful nature--mostly pictures of childhood, or pictures which would amuse children. Evidently much of the furnishings of the old nursery had been brought up here to Mary Boyle's sitting-room. Helen had a glimpse, through a half-open door, of the bedroom--quite as bright and pretty. There was a little stove set up here, and a fire burned in it. It was one of those stoves that have isinglass all around it so that the fire can be seen when it burns red. It added mightily to the cheerful tone of the room. How neat everything appeared! Yet the very neatest thing in sight was the little old lady herself, sitting in a green-painted rocker, with a low sewing-table at her side, wooden needles clicking fast in her fleecy knitting. She looked up at Helen with a little, bird-like motion--her head a bit on one side and her glance quizzical. This, it proved, was typical of Mary Boyle. "Deary, deary me!" she said. "You're a _new_ girl. And what do you want Mary to do for you?" "I--I thought I'd come and make you a little call," said Helen, timidly.