John Dorrien a Novel

lit up to advantage the room in which the boy sat. The low ceiling showed that it belonged to a second floor but it looked a pleasant room, for all that. In that bright yet uncertain light there was no detecting the worn carpet, the faded damask curtains, the tarnished gilding of the frames on the wall. Every thing looked warm and pleasant, and every thing, after a fashion, was so. Mrs. Dorrien had been affluent once, and had preserved some relics of better days. A few pictures, some good china, an old Japanese cabinet, adorned her second-floor sitting-room. bloreover, she had a womans art in making the best of every thing and, if Mrs. Dorrien had lived in a garret, she would have contrived so that it should not look a depressing one. The flame, by suddenly dying away, took Johnny out of the marvelous garden, where trees bore precious stones by way of fruit, to the dim world of a London room. The water in the kettle was boiling now, and surely hlrs. Dorrien must soor, return. I think I shall make the tea, said Johnny, talking aloud to himself. He led a rather lonely life, and had acquired that habit. So, jumping down from his chair, he climbed up on another, to reach down the tea-caddy from the c7 i on zier and, in doing so, he knocked down an old china teacup and saucer on the floor, where they were at once shattered to pieces... --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.