She followed my gaze, hesitated, shot a keen and almost hostile glance at me, softened and coloured, then stole across the room to the ladder's foot.
I lifted the lantern, followed her, and mounted, lighting the way for her along low-hanging eaves among the rustling husks.

She dropped the trap-door silently, above the ladder, took the lantern from my hand, set it on the floor, and seated herself beside it on the husks, her cheeks still brightly flushed.
"Is this then your intimate abode ?" I asked, half-smiling.
"Could I desire a snugger one ?" she answered gaily.

"Here is both warmth and shelter; and a clean bed of husks; and if I am lonely, there be friendly little mice to bear me company o' nights.

And here my mice and I lie close and listen to the owls." "And you were reared in comfort!" I said with sudden bitterness.
She looked up quickly, then, shrugging her shoulders: "There is still some comfort for those who can remember their brief day of ease--none for those who never knew it.

I have had days of comfort." "What age are you, Lois ?" "Twenty, I think." "Scarce that!" I insisted.
"Do I not seem so ?" she asked, smiling.
"Eighteen at most--save for the--sadness--in your eyes that now and then surprises me--if it be sadness that I read there." "Perhaps it is the wisdom I have learned--a knowledge that means sadness, Euan.