Behind her stretched the great room—­high-ceiled and wide, and furnished for a princess—­a child princess.  Its canopied bed and royal draperies had come across the seas from a royal house—­the children of kings had slept in it before Betty Harris.  The high walls were covered with priceless decoration—­yet like a child in every line.  It was Betty’s own place in the great house—­and the little room adjoining, where Miss Stone slept, was a part of it, clear and fine in its lines and in the bare quiet of the walls.  Betty liked to slip away into Miss Stone’s room—­and stand very still, looking about her, hardly breathing.  It was like a church—­only clearer and sweeter and freer—­perhaps it was the woods—­with the wind whispering up there.  She always held her breath to listen in Miss Stone’s room; and when she came back, to her own, child’s room—­with its canopied bed and royal draperies and colour and charm, she held the stillness and whiteness of Miss Stone’s room in her heart—­it was like a bird nestling there.  Betty had never held a bird, but she often lifted her hands to them as they flew—­and once, in a dream, one had fluttered into the lifted hands and she had held it close and felt the wind blow softly.  It was like Miss Stone’s room.  But Miss Stone was not like that.  You could hug Nono and tell her secrets and what you wanted for luncheon.  Sometimes she would let you have it—­if you were good—­very good—­and Nono knew everything.  She knew so much that Betty Harris, looking from her window, sighed softly.  No one could know as much as Nono knew—­not ever.

“All ready, Betty.”  It was Miss Stone in the doorway again.  And with a last look down out of the window at the horses and the shimmering lake, the child came across the room, skipping a little.  “I should like to wear my hat with the cherries, please,” she said.  “I like to feel them bob in the sun when it shines—­they bob so nicely—­” She paused with a quick look—­“They do bob, don’t they, Nono?”

“I don’t think I ever noticed,” said Miss Stone.  She was still smiling as she touched the tumbled hair, putting it in place.

“But they must bob,” said Betty.  “I think I should have noticed your cherries bobbing, Miss Stone.”  She was looking intently at the quiet cheek close beside her own, with its little flush of pink, and the greyness of the hair that lay beside it.  “I notice all your things, Nono,” she said softly.

Miss Stone smiled again and drew her to her.  “I will look to-day, Betty, when we drive—­”

The child nodded—­“Yes, they will bob then.  I can see them—­even with my eyes not shut, I can see them bob—­Please, Constance—­” She turned to the stiff maid who had come in—­“I want my grey coat and red-cherry hat.  We’re going to drive—­in the sun.”

The maid brought the garments and put them on with careful touch, tying the strings under the lifted chin.

The child nodded to her gaily.  “Good-bye, Constance—­we’re going for a drive—­a long drive—­we shall go and go and go—­Come, Miss Stone.”  She took the quiet hand, and danced a little, and held it close to her—­down the long staircase and through the wide hall—­and out to the sunshine and the street.