"I think I _would_ like to see the house," she said at last, after a
silent calculation and a scrutinizing look at Mrs. Kenny, who was a faded,
wiry, but withal kindly-looking person, shrewd and clean,--a North of
Ireland Protestant, as she afterward told Clover. In fact, her accent was
rather Scotch than Irish.
They went in. The front door opened into a minute hall, from which another
door led into a back hall with a staircase. There was a tiny sitting-room,
an equally tiny dining-room, a small kitchen, and above, two bedrooms and
a sort of unplastered space, which would answer to put trunks in. That was
all, save a little woodshed. Everything was bare and scanty and rather
particularly ugly. The sitting-room had a frightful paper of mingled
mustard and molasses tint, and a matted floor; but there was a good-sized
open fireplace for the burning of wood, in which two bricks did duty for
andirons, three or four splint and cane bottomed chairs, a lounge, and a
table, while the pipe of the large "Morning-glory" stove in the
dining-room expanded into a sort of drum in the chamber above. This
secured a warm sleeping place for Phil. Clover began to think that they
could make it do.
Mrs. Kenny, who evidently considered the house as a wonder of luxury and
convenience, opened various cupboards, and pointed admiringly to the glass
and china, the kitchen tins and utensils, and the cotton sheets and
pillow-cases which they respectively held.
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