She stood looking at the door a long time, then she carefully wiped it, the wall around it, and the shelf.

Going to another shelf, she picked out the books that had been written by her father and, beginning at the end of the shelf, she ranged them in a row until they completely covered the opening.

Then she finished filling the shelf with other books that she meant to keep, but her brain was working, milling over and over the question of what that little compartment contained and when it was to be opened and whether John Gilman knew about it, and whether the Consolidated Bank would remember the day specified, and whether it would mean anything important to her.
She carried the dusters back to Katy, and going to her room, concentrated resolutely upon her work; but she Was unable to do anything constructive.

Her routine lessons she could prepare, but she could not even sketch a wild rose accurately.

Finally she laid down her pencil, washed her brushes, put away her material, and locking her door, slipped the key into her pocket.