First of all, of course, the place had to be thoroughly cleaned, then whitewashed as to the ceiling, and scoured over and over as to the unpainted wood.  Archie Vanderhoven and all the brothers of both families helped manfully with this, and the two dear old doctors both climbed up stairs every day, and gave us their criticism.  When the cleanness and the sweetness were like the world after the deluge, we began to furnish.  The floor was stained a deep dark cherry red; Mrs. Raeburn presented the room with a large rug, called an art-square; Mrs. Vanderhoven made lovely ecru curtains of cheese-cloth, full and flowing, for the windows and these were caught back by cherry ribbons.

We had a regular controversy over the bed, half of us declaring for a folding bed, that could be shut up by day and be an armoire or a book-case, the others wanting a white enameled bed with brass knobs and bars.  The last party carried the day.

The boys hung some shelves, and on these we arranged Grace’s favorite books.  Under the books in the window were her writing-table and her chair and foot-stool.  The Vanderhovens sent a pair of brass andirons for the fireplace, and the little Hastings children, who were taken into the secret, contributed a pair of solid silver candlesticks.

Never was there a prettier room than that which we stood and surveyed one soft April morning when it was pronounced finished.  Our one regret was that dear Mrs. Wainwright could not see it.  But the oldest of the Raeburn boys brought over his camera and took a picture of the room, and this was afterwards enlarged and framed for one of Mrs. Wainwright’s own birthdays.

“Mother dear,” said Grace one evening, as they sat together for a twilight talk, “do you believe God always answers prayers?”

“Always, my child.”

“Do you think we can always see the answers, feel sure He has heard us?”

“The answers do not always come at once, Grace, nor are they always what we expect, but God sends us what is best for us, and He gives us strength to help answer the prayers we make.  Sometimes prayers are answered before they leave our lips.  Don’t you know that in every ’Oh, my Father,’ is the answer, ‘Here, my child?’”

“I used to long, years ago,” said Grace, “when I was as happy as I could be with dear uncle and auntie, just to fly to you and my father.  It seemed sometimes as if I would die just to get home to Highland again, and be one of the children.  Uncle and auntie want me to go abroad with them this summer, just for a visit, and they are so good they will take one of my sisters and one of the Raeburns; but I hate to think of the ocean between you and me again even for a few weeks.”

“You must go, dearie,” said Mrs. Wainwright.  “The dear uncle is part owner of you, darling, and he’s very generous; but he can never have you back to keep.”

“No, indeed.”

“Which of the Raeburns do you suppose they can best spare?”