Anne, fearfully expecting to be devoured by the
yelping curs, could not answer. "Who's out there, say?" repeated the
man. Anne took two or three steps toward the protection of the light and
the open door. The man answered a question from within. "Don't know.
It's a child," he said, catching sight of Anne, and going to meet her.
"Them pups won't bite. Get away, Red Coat. She'll nip you if she gits a
chance. Come right on in, honey. Whyn't you holler at the gate?"
Anne followed the strange man through the door that he opened hospitably
wide. It was and was not the dear room that she remembered. There were
the four big windows, the panelled walls, the bookcase with
diamond-paned doors, built in a recess beside the chimney. But where was
the gilt-framed mirror that hung over the mantel-piece? And the silver
candlesticks with crystal pendants? And the old brass fender and
andirons? And the shiny mahogany table with brass-tipped claw feet? And
the little spindle-legged tables with their burdens of books, vases, and
pictures? And the tinkly little old piano? And the carved mahogany
davenport? And the sewing-table, ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, that
stood always by the south window? And the quaint old engravings and
colored prints? All these were gone.
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