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"Her lips are roses over-wash'd with dew,

Or like the purple of narcissus' flower;

No frost their fair, no wind doth waste their powers,

But by her breath her beauties do renew"--Robert Greene

The dusk of an autu in on the well-filled

library of Mrs Standish Treht filtered softly through the rose silk curtains and blended

with the ruddy glow of fire-light The atmosphere of this room was

ly domestic than that of any other room in Mrs Tremont's

somewhat bleakly luxurious home

Perhaps it was the row upon row of books in their scarlet leather

bindings, perhaps it was the fine old collection of Dutchhomely scenes fro effect of the more formal rooms; but, whatever was the reason,

the fact remained that the library was the room in which to dream

dreams, appreciate comfort and be content

At least so it seelanced from time to time

at the tiny French clock that silently ticked away the hours on the