It possessed two rather grimy windows, a faded brown wallpaper, an old green carpet, and some very stiff, hard chairs.

On one wall was a large map of the world, and on the other an old print of Romans sacking Jerusalem, a picture which frightened Angelina every night of her life, when the dark came and the lamp illuminated the writhing limbs, the falling bodies, the tottering walls.

From the windows the Square was visible, and at the windows Angelina spent a great deal of her time, but her present nurse--nurses succeeded one another with startling frequency--objected to what she called "window-gazing." "Makes a child dreamy," she said; "lowers her spirits." Angelina was, naturally, a dreamy child, and no amount of nurses could prevent her being one.

She was dreamy because her loneliness forced her to be so, and if her dreams were the most real part of her day to her that was surely the faults of her aunts.

But she was not at all a quick child; although to-day was her third birthday she could not talk very well, could not pronounce her r's, and lisped in what her trail of nurses told her was a ridiculous fashion for so big a girl.