Here was where she spent those hours when her absence from the Bar Nothing was left unexplained to any one save Lite.

Here was where she drew into her shell, when her Uncle Carl made her feel more than usually an interloper; or when her Aunt Ella's burden of complaints and worry and headaches grew just a little too much for Jean.
She never opened the door into the kitchen.

There was another just beyond the sewing-machine, that gave an intimate look into the face of the bluff which formed that side of the coulee wall.

There were hollyhocks along the path that led to this door, and stunted rosebushes which were kept alive with much mysterious assistance in the way of water and cultivation.

There was a little spring just under the foot of the bluff, where the trail began to climb; and some young alders made a shady nook there which Jean found pleasant on a hot day.
The rest of the house might be rat-ridden and desolate.