CHAPTER XXVII.
A TRANSFORMATION.
When Cosmo the second time opened his eyes, he was afresh bewildered.

Which was the dream--that vision of wretchedness, or this of luxury?
If it was not a dream, how had they moved him without once disturbing his sleep?
It was as marvellous as anything in the Arabian Nights! Could it be the same chamber?
Not a thing seemed the same, yet in him was a doubtful denial of transportance.
Yes, the ceiling was the same! The power of the good fairy had not reached to the transformation of that! But the walls! Instead of the great hole in the plaster close by the bed, his eyes fell on a piece of rich old tapestry! Curtains of silk damask, all bespotted with quaintest flowers, each like a page of Chaucer's poetry, hung round his bed, quite other than fit sails for the Stygian boat.
They had made the bed as different as the vine in summer from the vine in winter.

A quilt of red satin lay in the place of the patchwork coverlid.

Everything had been changed.

He thought the mattress felt soft under him--but that was only a fancy, for he saw before the fire the feather-bed intended to lie between him and it.
He felt like a tended child, in absolute peace and bliss--or like one just dead, while yet weary with the struggle to break free.