It was quite a tour.

Danton Hall was no joke to go over.

Upstairs and down stairs; along halls and passages; the drawing-room, where they had been last night; the winter drawing-room on the second floor, all gold and crimson; a summer morning-room, its four sides glass, straw matting on the floor, flower-pots everywhere, looking like a conservatory; the library, where, perpetuated in oils, many Dantons hung, and where book-shelves lined the walls; into what was once the nursery, where empty cribs stood as in olden times, and where, under a sunny window, a low rocker stood, Mrs.Danton's own chair; into Kate's fairy boudoir, all fluted satin and brocatelle; into her bed-chamber, where everything was white, and azure, and spotless as herself; into Eeny's room, pretty and tasteful, but not so superb; into Rose's, very disordered, and littered, and characteristic; into papa's, big, carpetless, fireless, dreadfully grim and unlike papa himself; into Grace's, the perfection of order and taste, and then Eeny stopped, out of breath.
"There's lots more," she said; "papa's study, but he is writing there now, and the green-room, and Mr.Richards' rooms, and----" "Never mind," said Kate, hastily, "we will not disturb papa or Mr.
Richards.

Let us go and see old Margery." They found the old woman in a little room appropriated to her, knitting busily, and looking bright, and hale, and hearty.

She rose up and dropped the young lady a stiff curtsey.
"I'm very glad to see you, Miss," said Margery.