restoring his sensitive nerves to normal poise.
Elizabeth loved the attic, too. When Philip was away from home during those long four years she used to creep up there and just sit and think, gazing into the dusty depths of the corners, vaguely determining that some day she would straighten things up, move everything and clean. She never had the time, however, which no doubt was just as well, as in her zeal she might have destroyed some of the charm of the place. As it was, she swept and scrubbed the floor every now and then, washed the little dusty windows and removed the cobwebs that the busy spiders festooned in the corners.
She had rubbed up some of the furniture a little with boiled oil and turpentine. An old highboy near a window had responded resplendently to her attentions. The light shone on its polished surface, bringing out the rich red of the mahogany and its fine rippling grain. On it, leaning against the wall, she had placed the portrait of the creator of the sunken garden.
Philip and his mother now came together to the attic for peace and quiet. Sometimes Betsy joined them there, but the place did not appeal so much to her joyous nature. She declared it was too spooky for her, although the skylight had helped it a little.
