"How do you make it?"
"Oh, you just pile the stones up in a heap, and you stick dried grasses,
and autumn leaves and things, in them; and, if ever you have any flowers,
you know, you stick them in, too."
"I see; it must be very effective; and sometimes I can give you flowers
for it, I'm sure."
"Thank you, Miss Patty; I hope you will. Oh, I'll be so glad to have it;
I've been saving these stones for it for years. You see, they're
beautiful stones."
Pansy Potts was on her knees arranging the stones, many of which were
jagged pieces of quartz shining here and there with mica scales, into a
symmetrical pile, which somehow had the effect of a Pagan altar.
"Well," said Patty, as she watched her, "I don't think you'll need any of
the decorations I expected to give you."
"Oh, Miss Patty," said Pansy earnestly, "please don't make me have
pictures, and pincushions, and vases, and all those things; I like my own
things so much better."
"You shall fix your room just as you choose," said Patty kindly; "and if
I can help you in any way, I'll be glad to do so. How are _you_
progressing, Mancy?"
Patty stepped across the hall to her cook's room, and found its stout
occupant rather precariously perched on a chair, tacking up a picture.
She had evidently improved her time, for many other pictures were already
in place, and, what is unusual in either a public or private art-gallery,
the pictures were all exactly alike.
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