propped on her hands. The window was shut, as every window in every farm
and cottage on the marsh was shut at night, though the ague was now
little more than a name on the lips of grandfathers. Therefore the room
in which two people had slept was rather stuffy, though this in itself
would hardly account for Joanna's heaviness, since it was what she
naturally expected a bedroom to be in the morning. Such vague sorrow was
perplexing and disturbing to her practical emotions; she hurriedly
attributed it to "poor father," and the propriety of the sentiment
allowed her the relief of a few tears.

Turning back into the room she unbuttoned her turkey-red dressing-gown,
preparatory to the business of washing and dressing. Then her eye fell
on Ellen still asleep in her little iron bedstead in the corner, and a
glow of tenderness passed like a lamp over her face. She went across to
where her sister slept, and laid her face for a moment beside hers on
the pillow. Ellen's breath came regularly from parted lips--she looked
adorable cuddled there, with her red cheeks, like an apple in snow.
Joanna, unable to resist the temptation, kissed her and woke her.

"Hullo, Jo--what time is it?" mumbled Ellen sleepily.

"Not time to get up yet. I'm not dressed."

She sat on the edge of the bed, stooping over her sister, and her big
rough plaits dangled in the child's face.

"Hullo, Jo--hullo, old Jo," continued the drowsy murmur.

"Go to sleep, you bad girl," said Joanna, forgetting that she herself
had roused her.