Would it make me thankful if you only gave me potatoes without salt ?" "Not unless your heart is right before God." "'_The Lord my Shepherd is_,'" sang Aunt Merce.
I put my hands over my ears, and looked defiantly round the room.
Its walls are no longer standing, and the hands of its builders have crumbled to dust.

Some mental accident impressed this picture on the purblind memory of childhood.
We were in mother's winter room.

She was in a low, chintz-covered chair; Aunt Merce sat by the window, in a straight-backed chair, that rocked querulously, and likewise covered with chintz, of a red and yellow pattern.

Before the lower half of the windows were curtains of red serge, which she rattled apart on their brass rods, whenever she heard a footstep, or the creak of a wheel in the road below.

The walls were hung with white paper, through which ran thread-like stripes of green.