Excerpt: ...that I used to read about when I was-It makes me really nervous." Clover went to the window to look at the mysterious object. It was a cone-shaped thing of white unburned clay, whose use she could not guess. She found later that it was a receptacle for ashes. "I suppose your rooms are front ones?" went on Mrs. Watson, querulously. "Mine isn't. It's quite a little one at the side. I think it must be just under this. Phil's is in front, and is a nice large one with a view of the mountains. I wish there were one just like it for you. The doctor says that it's very important for him to have a great deal of air in his room." "Doctors always say that; and of course Dr. Hope, being a friend of yours and all-It's quite natural he should give you the preference. Though the Phillips's are accustomed-but there, it's no use; only, as I tell Ellen, Boston is the place for me, where my family is known, and people realize what I'm used to." "I'm so sorry," Clover said again. "Perhaps somebody will go away, and Mrs. Marsh have a front room for you before long." "She did say that she might. I suppose she thinks some of her boarders will be dying off. In fact, there is one-that tall man in gray in the reclining-chair-who didn't seem to me likely to last long. Well, we will hope for the best. I'm not one who likes to make difficulties." This prospect, together with dinner, which was presently announced, raised Mrs. Watson's spirits a little, and Clover left her in the parlor, exchanging experiences and discussing symptoms with some ladies who had sat opposite them at table. Mrs. Hope came for a call; a pretty little woman, as friendly and kind as her husband. Then Clover and Phil went out for a stroll about the town. Their wonder increased at every turn; that a place so well equipped and complete in its appointments could have been created out of nothing in fifteen years...