“No,” Madame replied stubbornly.  “He asked me to do it.”

“He only meant for you to direct,” said Rose.  “You surely don’t think he meant you to do the scrubbing?”

Madame smiled at that, and yielded gracefully.  “There must be infinite scrubbing, after all these years.  I believe I’ll superintend operations from here.  Then, when it’s all done, I’ll go over and welcome them home.”

“That is as it should be.  Isabel and I will go over this afternoon, and when we come back, we can tell you all about it.”

“You’d better drive—­I’m sure the paths aren’t broken.”

So, after luncheon, the two started out with the keys, Madame waving them a cheery good-bye from the window.

“Everything about this place seems queer to me,” said Isabel.  “It’s the same, and yet not the same.”

“I know,” Rose answered.  “Things are much smaller, aren’t they?”

“Yes.  The rooms used to be vast and the ceilings very far away.  Now, they’re merely large rooms with the ceilings comfortably high.  The garden used to seem like a huge park, but now it’s only a large garden.  There used to be a great many steps in the stairway, and high ones at that.  Now it’s nothing compared with other flights.  Only Aunt Francesca remains the same.  She hasn’t changed at all.”

“She’s a saint,” said Rose with deep conviction, as the carriage turned into the driveway.

The house, set far back from the street, was of the true Colonial type, with stately white pillars at the dignified entrance.  The garden was a tangled mass of undergrowth—­in spite of the snow one could see that—­ but the house, being substantially built, had changed scarcely at all.

“A new coat of paint will freshen it up amazingly,” said Rose, as they went up the steps.  She was thrilled with a mysterious sense of adventure which the younger woman did not share.  “I feel like a burglar,” she continued, putting the key into the rusty lock.

“I feel cold,” remarked Isabel, shivering in her furs.

At last the wide door swung on its creaking hinges and they went into the loneliness and misery of an empty house.  The dust of ages had settled upon everything and penetrated every nook and cranny.  The floors groaned dismally, and the scurrying feet of mice echoed through the walls.  Cobwebs draped the windows, where the secret spinners had held high carnival, undisturbed.  An indescribable musty odour almost stifled them and the chill dampness carried with it a sense of gloom and foreboding.

“My goodness!” Isabel exclaimed.  “Nobody can ever live here again.”

“Don’t be discouraged,” laughed Rose.  “Soap, water, sunshine, and fire can accomplish miracles.”

At the end of the hall a black, empty fireplace yawned cavernously.  There was another in the living-room and still another in the library back of it.  Isabel opened the door on the left.  “Why, there’s another fireplace in the dining-room,” she said.  “Do you suppose they have one in the kitchen, too?”