"If Helen finds any pleasure in that musty old room," she said, one cold January morning, "I'm sure I'm glad.
But she would be a great deal more sensible and cheerful if she'd sit up in the parlor with me, if she didn't do anything more than play patience.
But then, Helen never was like other people." And so she left her niece and her husband, with a little good-natured contempt in her eyes, and went up to her own domains.

Mr.Dale was arranging some plants on a shelf across one of the windows, and Helen was watching him.

"They generally die before the winter is out," he said, "but perhaps with you to look after them they'll pull through." He was in his flowered dressing-gown, and was standing on tiptoe, reaching up for one of the mildewed flower-pots.

"These are orange plants," he explained proudly.

"I planted the seeds a month ago, and see how they've grown." He put his glasses on and bent down to examine them, with an absorbed look.