"She's sound asleep," said she, "and I didn't think there was any
need of waking her. We'll send word by John that we've been here.
And oh! you can't imagine how snug and happy she did look, lying
there in her comfortable bed, in that nice, airy room. I'll tell
you what it is, if it wasn't for the neighbors, and especially the
Atkinsons, I wouldn't go back one step."

"Well," said I, "I don't know that I care so particularly about it,
myself. But I suppose I couldn't stay here and leave all
Thompson's things out there to take care of themselves."

"Oh no!" said Euphemia. "And we're not going to back down. Are
you ready?"

On our way down-stairs we had to pass the partly open door of our
own room. I could not help holding up the lantern to look in.
There was the bed, with its fair white covering and its smooth,
soft pillows; there were the easy-chairs, the pretty curtains, the
neat and cheerful carpet, the bureau, with Euphemia's work-basket
on it; there was the little table with the book that we had been
reading together, turned face downward upon it; there were my
slippers; there was--

"Come!" said Euphemia, "I can't bear to look in there. It's like a
dead child."

And so we hurried out into the night and the rain. We stopped at
the wood-shed and got an armful of dry kindling, which Euphemia was
obliged to carry, as I had the bundle of bed-clothing, the