R 



C O U X T R Y H O M E 



with her candle, winding up the dim stairway and along the shadowy 

 gallery, the old Roman ruins in the woodcuts on the narrow panels 

 appearing and disappearing, the light reflecting on a bit of Gubbio 

 or Mexican pottery, on an old Italian pharmacy jar or delft plate, 

 high on the shelf above the doors. A low seat covered with dull 

 red brocade stands opposite the row of north windows, where the 

 long sweep of the Dipper greets the sleep-laden pilgrims on their 

 dreamland wav. 



