There were two
large gaunt trees on either side of a brick walk, and that walk had
been swept to the last degree of neatness. The steps were freshly
scoured, and a small brass door-plate, like a doctor's sign, was as
bright as rubbing could make it. "James Doyle," she read.
Suddenly she was glad she had come. The little brick house looked
anything but tragic, with its shining windows, its white curtains
and its evenly drawn shades. Through the windows on the right came
a flickering light, warm and rosy. There must be a coal fire there.
She loved a coal fire.
She had braced herself to meet Aunt Elinor at the door, but an
elderly woman opened it.
"Mrs. Doyle is in," she said; "just step inside."
She did not ask Lily's name, but left her in the dark little hall
and creaked up the stairs. Lily hesitated. Then, feeling that Aunt
Elinor might not like to find her so unceremoniously received, she
pushed open a door which was only partly closed, and made a step
into the room. Only then did she see that it was occupied. A man
sat by the fire, reading. He was holding his book low, to get the
light from the fire, and he turned slowly to glance at Lily.
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