“It will hardly bear touching,” he said.  “By to-morrow these little white bells will be dead.”

I looked up at him.  “What a contrast!” I said.

“Where?”

“Here, in this room, and in you.”

“And between you and me?”

His face was serene, dark, and delicate, but to look at it made me shiver.  Mother came toward us, pleading fatigue as an excuse for retiring, and Cousin Charles called Cousin Alice, who went with us to our room.  In the morning, she said, we should see her three children.  She never left them, she was so afraid of their being ill, also telling mother that she would do all in her power to make my stay in Rosville pleasant and profitable.  As a mother, she could appreciate her anxiety and sadness in leaving me.  Mother thanked her warmly, and was sure that I should be happy; but I had an inward misgiving that I should not have enough to eat.

“I hear Edward,” said Alice.  “Good-night.”

Presently a girl, the same who had taken our bonnets, came in with a pitcher of warm water and a plate of soda biscuit.  She directed us where to find the apparel she had nicely smoothed and folded; took off the handsome counterpane, and the pillows trimmed with lace, putting others of a plainer make in their places; shook down the window curtains; asked us if we would have anything more, and quietly disappeared.  I offered mother the warm water, and appropriated the biscuits.  There were six.  I ate every one, undressing meanwhile, and surveying the apartment.

“Cassy, Mrs. Morgeson is an excellent housekeeper.”

“Yes,” I said huskily, for the dry biscuit choked me.

“What would Temperance and Hepsey say to this?”

“I think they would grumble, and admire.  Look at this,” showing her the tassels of the inner window curtains done up in little bags.  “And the glass is pinned up with nice yellow paper; and here is a damask napkin fastened to the wall behind the washstand.  And everything stands on a mat.  I wonder if this is to be my room?”

“It is probably the chamber for visitors.  Why, these are beautiful pillow-cases, too,” she exclaimed, as she put her head on the pillow.  “Come to bed; don’t read.”

I had taken up a red morocco-bound book, which was lying alone on the bureau.  It was Byron, and turning over the leaves till I came to Don Juan, I read it through, and began Childe Harold, but the candle expired.  I struck out my hands through the palpable darkness, to find the bed without disturbing mother, whose soul was calmly threading the labyrinth of sleep.  I finished Childe Harold early in the morning, though, and went down to breakfast, longing to be a wreck!

The three children were in the breakfast-room, which was not the one we had taken tea in, but a small apartment, with a door opening into the garden.  They were beautifully dressed, and their mother was tending and watching them.  The oldest was eight years, the youngest three months.  Cousin Alice gave us descriptions of their tastes and habits, dwelling with emphasis on those of the baby.  I drew from her conversation the opinion that she had a tendency to the rearing of children.  I was glad when Cousin Charles came in, looking at his watch.  “Send off the babies, Alice, and ring the bell for breakfast.”