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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
137
“This
was
what
she
called
the
best
room;
in
this
way,”
he
said
presently,
laying
his
knitting
on
the
table,
and
leading
the
way
across
the
front
entry
and
unlocking
a
door,
which
he
threw
open
with
an
air
of
pride.
The
best
room
seemed
to
me
a
much
sadder
and
more
empty
place
than
the
kitchen;
its
conventionalities
lacked
the
simple
perfection
of
the
humbler
room
and
failed
on
the
side
of
poor
ambition;
it
was
only
when
one
remembered
what
patient
saving,
and
what
high
respect
for
society
in
the
abstract
go
to
such
furnishing
that
the
little
parlor
was
interesting
at
all.
I
could
imagine
the
great
day
of
certain
purchases,
the
bewildering
shops
of
the
next
large
town,
the
aspiring
anxious
woman,
the
clumsy
sea-tanned
man
in
his
best
clothes,
so
eager
to
be
pleased,
but
at
ease
only
when
they
were
safe
back
in
the
sailboat
again,
going
down
the
bay
with
their
precious
freight,
the
hoarded
money
all
spent
and
nothing
to
think
of
but
tiller
and
sail.
I
looked
at
the
unworn
carpet,
the
glass
vases
on
the
mantelpiece
with
their
prim
bunches
of
bleached
swamp
grass
and
dusty
marsh
rosemary,
and
I
could
read
the
history
of
Mrs.
Tilley's
best
room
from
its
very
beginning.
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