CHAPTER VIII
THE “ARTICLES OF ADOPTION”
Judith Eliot had been accustomed to act upon her judgment; and to act quickly, and with decision. Aunt Hyacinth was half frightened when the young lady returned and said that Elaine had attempted to bar her out of the vacant rooms, but she was going to occupy one of them, nevertheless. The black mammy was a Daring servant, having followed her nursling Wallace when he married and set up housekeeping at Riverdale. She had nursed, in turn, each of the Daring children and, therefore, was devoted to them and their interests. But Auntie could never understand the favored servant of the Eliots, and through all the years she had known Elaine had seldom exchanged a word with the white woman. Why a housekeeper should be called “Miss” Halliday and allowed to assume airs of superiority was far beyond old Hyacinth’s comprehension. But the fact impressed her with a sense of awe of Elaine which time had never dissipated.
Since the Darings had come to this house to live the two serving women had held aloof from one another as before, and the aggressive, dominant attitude of Miss Halliday held Auntie in sure subjection to her will. She never doubted that Elaine had the power to turn her precious flock out in the cold world, if she chose, and therefore took great care not to annoy her in any way.
It was not clear to her, at this juncture, whether she ought to applaud or deplore Miss Judith’s defiance of the hitherto supreme power of “ol’ Miss Hall’day,” but she willingly followed the energetic young lady up the spiral staircase to show her the vacant rooms.
The east room was sunny and bright, but poorly furnished. In one corner stood several decrepit and damaged chairs, a few old pictures and some bundles of matting. A door, closed and locked, communicated with the room back of it – the room Miss Halliday herself occupied. Aunt Hyacinth, in a whisper, called Judith’s attention to this door.
Perhaps that accounted for the desire of the old woman that Miss Eliot take the west room, which was not nearly so pleasantly situated; but the young lady promptly decided that the east room suited her best. She was accustomed to doing things for herself, and with Auntie’s help dragged the cast-off chairs and other lumber into the west room and made a selection of the best furniture from the two.
Also, she robbed the stately parlor downstairs of a comfortable rocker and the hall of a small stand. When the east room had been swept, dusted and cleaned, it appeared to be quite livable, although Aunt Hy shook her head gravely and declared that it was not nearly as good as the front rooms. In fact, she confided to Judith that the east room “wasn’t fit fo’ ’spectible comp’ny.”
“When Phil and Don come home to lunch,” said Judith, “I’ll get them to help me up with the trunks and bags, and then I’ll unpack and settle.”
At noontime, however, when the children came home from school, Phœbe vetoed the entire carefully planned arrangement. Cousin Judith mustn’t be tucked into that cheerless east room on any account, but should have Phœbe’s own pretty room at the front, with its balcony overlooking the village and the river.
“I’m seldom in my room,” said the girl, “while you, Cousin Judith, will often shut yourself up to paint or write. So, I’ll move into the east room in a jiffy, and rid up the front room so you can take possession.”
Miss Eliot protested against this change, but Phœbe had a will of her own and moreover, was right in her argument. Everyone energetically assisted in transferring Phœbe’s “traps” across the hall, and before school time arrived Cousin Judith’s baggage had all been carried to the big front room and deposited there.
That afternoon Phœbe “settled” her new quarters in five minutes’ time, for she was not very particular about appearances and had the true Southern disposition to leave any article wherever it happened to be. Order was not one of her characteristics, but Phœbe always claimed she could find anything she wanted, just as quickly as those who put them properly away.
Cousin Judith, although an artist, had an inherent aversion to disorder. She wanted her surroundings to look pretty at all times, and a tasteful arrangement of her possessions meant a place for everything and everything in its place. Phœbe was astonished when she came home that afternoon at the transformation effected in her old room. A hundred pretty knickknacks and articles of virtu, brought from foreign parts, had been arranged most effectively. Some choice prints from Paris and Dresden were on the walls; a small bust of Psyche in pure Carrara stood on the mantel. Judith’s well-worn easel was inscribed on every inch of its wooden surface with autographs of more or less famous artists and litterateurs who had visited her studio.
With all this the place looked as cosy and homelike as it was attractive, and thereafter the greatest joy of a Daring, big or little, was to pass an hour in Cousin Judith’s room.
Phœbe’s sleep in the east hall room was as sound and peaceful that night, as it had been before she moved from her more commodious quarters. She glanced more than once at the connecting door, as she undressed, but no sound came from old Miss Halliday’s room on the other side. There was a transom over the door, but probably the glass had long since been broken or removed, for a thin board now covered it, tacked to the frame from Phœbe’s side. There was no ready communication to be had between the two sides of the house, and as far as Phœbe was concerned she was well pleased that this was so.
That Saturday was a great day for the Darings.
“We’re going to have a good long talk together,” announced Cousin Judith at breakfast. “Just as soon as I get my room in order and Phœbe makes your beds we will get together in the parlor and begin to get acquainted.”
“Oh, not the parlor, please,” protested Don. “It’s so gloomy there.”
“The pahlah will spoil all our fun,” added Sue.
“Then you must come to my own room,” decided Cousin Judith.
Becky went out on the porch while the preparations were pending and saw the Randolph children, faultlessly attired, standing hand in hand just across the street.
“Hello, Becky!” shouted Allerton. “Come on over.”
Doris turned to him reprovingly. Then she raised her voice to Becky and said:
“My brother wishes to invite you to join us.”
“Can’t go you,” returned Becky, carelessly. “My Cousin Judith’s come, an’ we’re goin’ to have some chin music.”
“May I inquire what sort of an entertainment you refer to?” asked Doris, coming a little nearer.
“You may,” said Becky, graciously.
Doris waited, still holding her brother’s hand. To Becky it seemed absurd that such a big boy and girl should act so much like infants. So far, her acquaintance with the Randolphs had only interested her because she could “guy them” unmercifully, without their discovering it.
Allerton’s patience was not equal to that of his demure sister.
“Please tell us,” he pleaded.
“If you had a good chance, Al, you’d soon blossom into a boy – quite a decent boy,” remarked Becky, reflectively. “The trouble is, you’ll never get a chance in that stuck-up crowd you train with. Why don’t you run away and be a man?”
“I am scarcely old enough, I fear,” he sighed.
“Then be a bootblack, or a chimney sweep, or a robber, or – or —anything!”
“Oh, Rebecca!” wailed Doris, greatly shocked. “How sadly the lightness of your mind is reflected in your words!”
“By cracky, you’ve got me going,” returned Becky, despondently. “What does it, Doris; religion, or Boston kindergartens?”
“You have not yet told us what ‘chin music’ means,” suggested Allerton, with much interest. “It is a new term to us.”
“It means a confab, that’s all.”
“You must pardon our ignorance,” Doris observed, in her most proper manner. “Our vocabulary, you know, is limited to authorized words; yet with you the English language seems to have been amplified, and the grammatical construction of many sentences altered. Is it an idiom peculiar to this section of the country, or have you authority for the use of such unusual expressions?”
Somehow, Becky felt distinctly abashed. She might laugh at the proper speech of Doris Randolph and regard it in the light of a good joke; but, after all, she experienced a humiliating sense of her own crudeness and lack of refinement whenever the new neighbors engaged her in conversation.
Of course she resented this feeling, which intruded itself, unasked. The Darings were as good as the Randolphs, any day, she mentally declared, knowing all the time the thought was an admission of inferiority. Becky had had careful training once upon a time, and her dead mother’s injunction never to forget her personal dignity, nor give to others an opportunity to disparage it, was not wholly forgotten by the girl. She well knew that she had cultivated the slang of the streets and their rabble because some of her village associates considered it amusing and had encouraged her by their laughter. So, although the reproaches of the carefully trained Randolph children were only implied, through their complete ignorance of such phrases, the girl felt them nevertheless, and this made her bitter and more reckless than ever.
Fortunately, Phœbe called to her just then and with a shout of “So long, bully Bostoners!” she ran in to attend the gathering in Cousin Judith’s room.
Now it chanced that Miss Eliot had overheard, through her open window, the conversation exchanged across the street by Becky and her neighbors, and her sweet face flushed painfully while she listened. That a daughter of gentle, refined Molly Eliot should exhibit coarseness and vulgarity amazed and annoyed her. More than once during the brief day since her arrival she had winced at the rude sallies of Becky and Don, and even little Sue had sometimes offended her sensitive ears.
“There are many difficulties to be surmounted and plenty of hard work ahead of me, I fear,” she thought, with a sigh of regret. “But my duty to these waifs is plain, and I must pray for strength and wisdom to accomplish it.”
Then she turned and showed a smiling face as the Darings trooped in, an eager group. Many were their exclamations of pleasure as they examined Cousin Judith’s “pretty things,” and even Becky was so thoroughly delighted and turned her clear hazel eyes so adoringly upon her cousin that her recent rudeness was almost condoned.
Judith began with a relation of her own history, including many incidents of her life abroad and the hard struggle she had faced to win recognition as an artist. Then she told them of the deep affection that had always existed between her and “Cousin Molly,” the mother of the absorbed audience. She had been deeply pained at Molly’s death, and when, three years later, Molly’s children lost their father – their only natural protector – Judith had remembered that she was their nearest relative, next to Gran’pa Eliot, and it seemed her duty to go to them and help them to face the world and become the noble men and women their dear mother so fondly wished them to be.
The Darings were duly impressed and affected. Sue and Phœbe sobbed a little, and Phil wiped his eyes more than once. Donald was not so emotional but looked grave and thoughtful, while Becky’s face was white and set as she realized how little credit she had thus far reflected on the sweet, gentle mother who had been prematurely taken from them.
“What I wish,” said Judith, wistfully, “is to become a second mother to dear Molly’s children; to do for them what I think Molly would have done, had she lived. But I cannot acquire such a proud position, my dears, without your full and free consent. You must talk this over among yourselves and decide if you are willing to adopt me.”
Phœbe wrapped her arms around the speaker and kissed her cheek, while tears trembled on her dark lashes.
“Oh, Cousin Judith!” she said; “we’re so happy, and so grateful!”
Becky knelt at Judith’s feet and buried her head in her lap. Sue came like a dainty fairy to find a refuge in Judith’s embrace.
“I’d like another mamma – awful well!” she whispered; “and I couldn’t find a lovelier one than you, Cousin Judith.”
“You’ve given up a good deal for us,” Phil remarked in a husky voice, “and I’m afraid we’re not worth it, at all. But the – the youngsters need some sort of a mother, Cousin, and Phœbe and I need some one to advise us and help us in our times of trouble and worry. So we – we haven’t the courage to refuse your generous offer.”
“It won’t need a vote,” asserted Don, scowling darkly to keep from crying. “You’re elected unanimous, Little Mother; an’ that settles it.”
Judith smiled and kissed them all in turn, big and little. Then she said, very seriously:
“This alliance, my dears, means a good deal to all of us, and must not be undertaken lightly. We must have a fair and square agreement, on both sides, setting forth and defining what we have undertaken.”
They were very attentive, at this.
“First,” she continued, “I want to tell you that I am going to love each one of you, dearly, and I want you to promise you will try to love me in return.”
“Why, we do already!” exclaimed Sue, and Judith felt that she answered for all.
“The duty of a mother,” she explained, “is not only to love her children, but to train them properly. She must correct their faults, direct their amusements, attend to their deportment, laugh when they are glad and grieve over their sorrows. And they, in turn, must be content to be guided by her larger experience in life and willing to obey her in everything.”
“Of course,” said Becky, nodding. “We’ll agree to all that, Cousin Judith.”
“I long to have you grow up to be admired and respected by all you meet, as your father and mother were. Do you realize how proud a thing it is to be a Daring? You bear an honored name, my dears – a name that has always stood for nobility, truth, generosity and culture. You must guard that name, jealously, so as not only to reflect credit upon your parentage, but to win for yourselves the approval of the world.”
The awed silence that greeted this speech was broken by Donald. Perhaps he was really more affected than any of the others; I think his very soul was stirred by a desire to be a credit to his name and to himself. But he said bluntly and with a mischievous grin:
“You girls needn’t worry. You’ll change your names some day – if you’re lucky!”
It relieved the tense situation and they all laughed, including Judith. But she meant the lesson to be impressive and not easily forgotten, so she hailed a suggestion from Becky, which was perhaps intended to be as flippant as Donald’s remark.
“Let’s draw up an agreement, and all sign it,” cried the girl. “Phœbe has a typewriter, and we won’t need any lawyer.”
“A good idea,” said Miss Eliot. “Phœbe and I will go to her room and draw up the Articles of Adoption.”
This was done, and the others waited restlessly enough for a full hour for them to return, although Phil took occasion to point out how fortunate they all were to secure a friend and protector in this, their hour of greatest need.
After all, the Articles of Adoption proved quite simple and brief, although they had taken so long to prepare. Most of the paper was devoted to Cousin Judith’s agreement to love and watch over the five Darings, to correct their errors, promote their happiness and fill the place of a real mother to them, so far as she was able. The Darings, for their part, merely agreed to obey her as they would have done their natural parents. But at the last was a little clause that was destined to prove very important – more important than it then seemed. It stipulated that if any of the signers revolted from the letter or spirit of the agreement, or in other words broke the contract, the culprit should submit the case to any two of the others he or she might select; and, if they decided the offender was wrong, then he or she must either accept proper punishment, or become divorced from these Articles of Adoption.
The Darings signed the papers with enthusiastic glee; Phœbe first, because she was five minutes older than her twin; then Phil and Becky, and Don and Sue. Two copies had been made, one for Phœbe to keep and one for Cousin Judith; and to make it appear more legal and binding, Aunt Hyacinth was called in as a witness and made an inky impression of her thumb on both documents by way of signature.
By this time dinner was ready, for the Darings ate their heartiest meal in the middle of the day, in good Southern fashion.
While they dined, Cousin Judith said she would devote the afternoon to long private talks with each of her adopted children. She wanted them to tell her all about themselves, their hopes and trials and longings, and then she would be able to help them, individually, to better advantage.
Sue was closeted with the Little Mother first, because she was the youngest and most impatient. She emerged from Cousin Judith’s room bright-eyed and smiling, and then Don went in. One by one they had heart to heart talks with their newly adopted counsellor, the sessions of Phil and Phœbe being much the longest because they were older and had more to explain. When the conferences finally ended, Judith had gleaned much valuable information concerning the Daring household, and was prepared to assume her new duties with proper intelligence.
CHAPTER IX
PHŒBE HAS AN ADVENTURE
Perhaps no one was so greatly relieved by the advent of Cousin Judith as Phœbe Daring. The girl had keenly felt her responsibilities during the troubled months since her father’s death, and her days and nights had been filled with anxieties. Now, however, she could cast all worry to the winds, for the new head of the household, albeit gentle of demeanor, low voiced and cheery, had nevertheless a reserve force and power of command that inspired confidence, being in sharp contrast to Phœbe’s own inexperience and lack of self reliance.
Aunt Hyacinth also felt relief. She had not worried much, at any time; it wasn’t her way. But Phœbe’s girlish responsibilities were as nothing compared to those of the black mammy whose tenderly reared brood seemed, in these adverse times, to have become neglected and forsaken by all the world. She hailed Miss Eliot’s coming with joy and unfeigned gratitude, and when she understood that “Miss Judy,” as she called her in the old days, was to take charge of the household, she felt a great weight lifted from her brave old shoulders.
“I knows dem chill’ns ben runnin’ wild, Miss Judy,” she said earnestly, “but I ain’t got de eddication, ner de arg’mentation to keep ’em toein’ de chalk mark. It needs mo’ brains ner Aunt Hy’cinth’s got.”
One night, when Phœbe had been asleep for some time, she was roused by a peculiar sound in the next room – the room back of her own – occupied by old Miss Halliday. It was a faint but persistent sound, as of something sliding softly over a wooden surface, and now and then it was accompanied by the crooning voice of the housekeeper. She did not speak, at these times, but droned a long, sighing “m-m-m-m-m” that denoted both ecstasy and intense excitement. The sounds were all subdued and stealthy, but in the dead of night they were clearly heard by the girl, who became half frightened, wondering if old Elaine had gone mad.
While she lay in her bed listening, a sudden silence fell, followed by several gentle thumps which she could not explain. Then a chair was pushed back; Miss Halliday pattered softly across the floor – and perfect silence ensued.
Phœbe lay a long time afterward listening for a recurrence of the mysterious sounds, but they did not mature and presently the girl fell asleep again.
Next morning the recollection of the occurrence was rather dim in her mind. She remembered her midnight fears and considered them rather soberly while dressing; but afterward, when she saw Miss Halliday feeding her chickens and looking after the garden in her accustomed manner, alert, composed and engrossed in her work, Phœbe dismissed any idea of the old woman’s being insane and soon forgot all about the incident.
This was commencement week, and Phil and Phœbe both graduated. The twins were not on a par as far as scholarship was concerned, for the girl barely passed her examinations. Phil was at the head of his class, as he had hoped to be, but he was obliged to share that honor with one other. Janet Ferguson had pressed him hard for first place all the term, and at last she stood equal to Phil in all classes. With manly generosity he was the first to congratulate her, for he liked Janet. She was a modest, quiet girl who had a smile and a pleasant word for everyone.
Old Judge Ferguson was mightily pleased. He slapped Phil on the back and said approvingly: “If you can keep step with my Janet, Phil, you’ve something to be proud of, I assure you.”
Phil was proud, and so was Phœbe. She had not expected honors, herself, but that her twin should do so well was certainly a source of pride to her. She fairly reveled in her brother’s reflected glory.
Cousin Judith gave Phil a scarf pin from Paris and Phœbe an oriental bracelet of unique design. Nor did she forget the daughter of her old friend Judge Ferguson, for Janet received from her, as a graduation gift, a silver brooch brought from Venice.
That evening was a joyous one in the Daring household. The younger children realized that a long vacation was ahead of them. Phœbe was now at liberty to begin life in earnest, and Phil was about to take his place in Spaythe’s Bank. Aunt Hy, well knowing this to be a festive occasion, prepared an elaborate supper, and afterward they all gathered in an end of the big parlor, which Judith’s deft hand had by this time rendered more cosy, and spent the evening listening to their Little Mother’s fascinating stories of Italian life.
It was late when they retired for the night, and Phœbe was tired. She was soon in bed, but the day’s excitement was yet upon her and she could not readily compose herself to sleep. Thoughts of the future and her ambitious plans for it obtruded themselves persistently, and she was wide-eyed when the ormolu clock, in Cousin Judith’s room opposite, chimed the hour of midnight.
Soon after her ear caught another sound – the gentle, stealthy sliding – sliding – sliding of some hard substance across a table-top. It came from Miss Halliday’s room, and was exactly the same sound she had heard several nights before.
Presently the old woman began her droning again: “M-m-m-m-m!” – a croon of the most beatific joy and exaltation. She evidently desired to suppress the murmur, for fear of being overheard, so that at first it barely reached Phœbe’s listening ears. But now and then her ecstasy led her to forget caution and raise the croon to a higher key.
It was all so uncanny, so strange and inexplicable, that the girl was more startled than she had been before. Yet she did not feel so alarmed, this time, as she was curious.
Softly throwing back the coverlet she tiptoed to the connecting door and crouched down to look through the keyhole. Only blackness rewarded the attempt. Then she placed her ear to the panel, but found she could not hear much more distinctly than when lying in bed. Shivering a little in the night air Phœbe was about to retreat when suddenly the thumps began, and between them Elaine spoke.
“Mine!” she said, muttered low but quite distinct. Then came a thump. “Mine!” she repeated. Another thump. “Mine!” she said, again; and so the word and the thump followed each other several times. Afterward, a brief silence and shuffle of the woman’s feet across the room. Then, as before, all sounds ceased.
Phœbe went back to bed thoughtful and perplexed. Surely there was some mystery about this queer performance. She remembered how unwilling Miss Halliday had been to have any of the Darings occupy the hall bedrooms, and it seemed there must be some connection between this reluctance and the strange sounds she had twice heard.
For some indefinite reason which she could not have explained Phœbe said nothing about these experiences, either to the Little Mother or to her brothers or sisters. The girl was inclined, at times, to dream wonderful daydreams when those about her thought her absorbed in humble occupations. Looking upon the world with clear, calm eyes, Phœbe found it essentially practical and commonplace, and accepted it as she found it, striving to do her duty at all times. But the fascinating dreams would not be denied, and one of her secret pleasures was to allow them full play in her mind when her hands were engaged in some unimportant matter. She never confided them even to her beloved twin; they were sacred to herself alone, and any exposure of them would have shamed her terribly.
They were healthy dreams, if inherently romantic and unreal. There was nothing morbid about Phœbe, although it must be admitted she had some queer characteristics that might be called faults. Cousin Judith thought she was more like her mother than any of the other children, yet her shrewd eyes marked the girl’s frequent abstraction and knew her thoughts were often far away from her material surroundings.
Phœbe scented a mystery. That old Miss Halliday possessed some secret which she dreaded to have revealed was quite evident to her, judging from what she had overheard. It would be difficult to explain to others, those peculiar sounds. Perhaps, she would be laughed at if she attempted it. She resolved, therefore, to keep her own counsel and watch Elaine carefully. If she discovered the secret it would then be time enough to make it known; meantime, she could enjoy the suggestion of a mystery without interference.
Practical, everyday life is apt to dispel visionary dreams. Phœbe leaned from her window the next morning and watched Cousin Judith bargaining with Miss Halliday for a dozen of fresh eggs.
“The Randolphs, across the road, pay me twenty cents a dozen,” said Elaine, gruffly. “You can buy eggs from the grocer for eighteen. There’s no need to waste your money on me.”
“Do the Randolphs take all you have?” asked Judith.
“Yes; and cry for more.”
“Then I will not urge you,” replied Miss Eliot, “although I would be willing to pay you twenty cents, myself. I know your eggs are quite fresh, which is not always the case with those obtained from the grocer.”
“I don’t want your money,” observed the woman, in a disagreeable tone. “I won’t touch your money. Mr. Eliot allows you house room out of charity, but he desires no communication, of any sort, between the two families.”
“How do you know that?” inquired Judith, looking at the old servant, steadily.
“He has told me so.”
“You know very well that he is incapable of speech.”
“Do I? That shows your ignorance, Judith Eliot. Your uncle can speak when he wants to, and speak to some purpose. His mind isn’t paralyzed, I assure you, and he is competent to direct his own affairs.”
“I cannot believe it,” persisted Judith.
The woman looked at her defiantly.
“Call in the law, if you want to,” she said; “I’d be glad to have you do it. Mr. Eliot can prove his mental condition in court, and his right to manage his own property. But if you put him to that trouble he’ll turn out the whole tribe of you, as sure as my name’s Elaine Halliday!”
Judith turned away without further remark. The shrewdness of the woman astonished and perplexed her. Possibly old Elaine was right, and could, if she chose, induce Uncle Eliot to speak. Otherwise she would scarcely have dared to thus defy all interference with her autocratic whims. It was also possible that the paralytic old man was so completely under Elaine’s influence that he would readily follow her suggestions.
Jonathan Eliot had always been a hard, stubborn man, even to his sweet, beautiful daughter Molly. As Judith remembered him, sitting stolidly in his chair that morning when she had forced herself upon his presence, he appeared a living mummy, lost to all recognition of his surroundings. Yet, if Elaine could arouse him at will, and his mind retained its natural poise, there was really danger that he might turn the Darings out of their refuge. Judith would not employ the law; she dared not; but she resolved to consult Judge Ferguson.
Acting upon this determination she at once put on her hat and started for the lawyer’s office.
Phœbe, seeing Miss Halliday busy in the hen-house, left her window and turned to examine the mysterious connecting door between her room and that of the housekeeper. In broad daylight it did not appear especially interesting. It was a heavy, old-fashioned door with a big keyhole in the lock. But when Phœbe stooped down she discovered a thick cloth had been placed on the opposite side, which effectually prevented her from examining the next room. She pushed a long hat-pin through the hole but failed to dislodge the cloth.
Next, she turned her attention to the transom above the door. It had once been made to swing open, but was now tightly nailed shut. Over the glass had been nailed a thin board, which fully covered it; but it was nailed to Phœbe’s side of the transom and the girl at once decided that here might be a way to discover what those mysterious midnight sounds meant.
She went into Phil’s room and searched in his tool chest for some instrument with which to remove the board from the transom. Just then Cousin Judith passed out of the front gate on her way down town, and Phœbe was all alone in the upper part of the house – except, of course, gran’pa, who could not interfere.
She selected a chisel and a hammer, and returned to her room. She drew her stand before the door and by means of a chair mounted to its top. From this elevation her head almost reached the ceiling, and she was able to work comfortably. Quickly prying the nails from the board with the chisel, Phœbe removed it and found a pane of clear glass behind. It was dingy with dust; but by rubbing clear one corner she found herself looking into Elaine’s room.
It was much like her own room, yet even more poorly furnished. A big, broad oaken table stood in the center – a heavily constructed affair that seemed out of place in a bedchamber. It was bare of even a cloth. A small dresser stood at one side; a bed was in the opposite corner; two stiff chairs and a rag carpet completed the furniture of the room, which denoted extreme neatness and cleanliness. Really, there was nothing here pertaining to the mysterious or unusual.