It's bed-time!" She led him, as though he were a child, into a little room,--one of the quaintest and prettiest he had ever seen,--with a sloping raftered ceiling, and one rather wide latticed window set in a deep embrasure and curtained with spotless white dimity.

Here there was a plain old-fashioned oak bedstead, trimmed with the same white hangings, the bed itself being covered with a neat quilt of diamond-patterned silk patchwork.

Everything was delicately clean, and fragrant with the odour of dried rose-leaves and lavender,--and it was with all the zealous care of an anxious housewife that Mary Deane assured her "guest" that the sheets were well-aired, and that there was not "a speck of damp" anywhere.

A kind of instinct told him that this dainty little sleeping chamber, so fresh and pure, with not even a picture on its white-washed walls, and only a plain wooden cross hung up just opposite to the bed, must be Mary's own room, and he looked at her questioningly.
"Where do you sleep yourself ?" he asked.
"Upstairs,"-- she answered, at once--"Just above you.

This is a two-storied cottage--quite large really! I have a parlour besides the kitchen,--oh, the parlour's very sweet!--it has a big window which my father built himself, and it looks out on a lovely view of the orchard and the stream,--then I have three more rooms, and a wash-house and cellar.