Jane usually visited the attic when rain made of it a place thrumming with soft sounds and the cobwebby lunettes were even further dimmed by trickling drops. The roof and the rain were very near; the elm-tops creaked and swayed close without. Chesley Street was invisible, infinitely far below, it seemed. The gray glimpses of harbor through the small, curved panes were distant and unreal. It was a dim little world in itself, the attic, far from the rest of the house, separated from it, surely, by much more than the steep, dark stairs which led to it.
On this occasion it was not raining, but Jane was alone in the house, her aunts being out to tea and her brothers tramping. The house was hers, below her, empty and silent; she felt herself in full command. She turned her attention to the contents of one of the trunks and prepared to impersonate some Ingram ancestor. Usually it was Grandfather Mark's gold-buckled belt and stout sea-boots which she donned, for she scorned the feminine furbelows in the bandboxes. But to-day she decided, with a sudden whim, to fit herself into crinoline, and, after some struggling, stepped
