troubles.

But these tears seemed different from the others, for when she had wiped
them away they did not seem to leave her eyes and her heart hot and
smarting.

And then imagine, if you can, what the rest of the evening was like.
The delicious comfort of taking off the damp clothes and putting on the
soft, warm, quilted robe before the glowing fire--of slipping her cold
feet into the luscious little wool-lined slippers she found near her
chair. And then the hot tea and savory dishes, the cushioned chair and
the books!

It was just like Sara, that, once having found the things real, she
should give herself up to the enjoyment of them to the very utmost. She
had lived such a life of imagining, and had found her pleasure so long
in improbabilities, that she was quite equal to accepting any wonderful
thing that happened. After she was quite warm and had eaten her supper
and enjoyed herself for an hour or so, it had almost ceased to be
surprising to her that such magical surroundings should be hers. As
to finding out who had done all this, she knew that it was out of the
question. She did not know a human soul by whom it could seem in the
least degree probable that it could have been done.

"There is nobody," she said to herself, "nobody." She discussed the
matter with Emily, it is true, but more because it was delightful to
talk about it than with a view to making any discoveries.

"But we have a friend, Emily," she said; "we have a friend."