Aunt Barbara was not an untidy house-cleaner--one who tosses the whole house into chaos, and simultaneous with the china from the closet, brings up a basket of bottles from the cellar to be washed and rinsed.

She took one room at a time, settling as she went along, so that her house never was in that state of dire confusion which so many houses present every fall and spring.

Her house was not hard to clean, and the chambers were soon done, except Ethie's own room, where Aunt Barbara lingered longest, turning the pretty ingrain carpet the brightest side up, rubbing the furniture with polish, putting a bit of paint upon the window sills where it was getting worn, and once revolving the propriety of hanging new paper upon the wall.

But that, she reasoned, would be needless expense.

Since the night Richard spent there, five years ago, no one had slept there, and no one should sleep there, either, till Ethie came back again.
"Till Ethie comes again." Aunt Barbara rarely said that now, for with each fleeting year the chance for Ethie's coming grew less and less, until now she seldom spoke of it to Betty, the only person to whom she ever talked of Ethie.