"You have lived out
here with two old people who belong to the past too much."
The girl moved a little, and swept her glance slowly round the room.
It was small and scantily furnished, though great curtains shrouded
door and window, and here and there a picture relieved the bareness of
the walls, which were paneled with roughly-dressed British-Columbian
cedar. The floor was of redwood diligently polished, and adorned, not
covered, by one or two skins brought by some of Colonel Barrington's
younger neighbors from the Rockies. There were two basket chairs and a
plain redwood table; but in contrast to them a cabinet of old French
workmanship stood in one corner bearing books in dainty bindings, and
two great silver candlesticks. The shaded lamp was also of the same
metal, and the whole room with its faint resinous smell conveyed, in a
fashion not uncommon on the prairie, a suggestion of taste and
refinement held in check by at least comparative poverty. Colonel
Barrington was a widower who had been esteemed a man of wealth, but the
founding of Silverdale had made a serious inroad on his finances. Even
yet, though he occasionally practiced it, he did not take kindly to
economy.
"Yes," said the girl, "I enjoyed it all--and it was so different from
the prairie."
There was comprehension, and a trace of sympathy, in Miss Barrington's
nod. "Tell me a little, my dear," she said. "There was not a great
deal about it in your letters.
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