"What a high bed!" she exclaimed. "Elsie, you'll have to climb on a
chair to get into it; and so shall I."

Elsie felt of it. "Feathers!" she cried a tone of horror. "O John!
why did we come? What shall we do?"

"I guess we shan't mind it much," replied John, who was perfectly well,
and considered these little variations on home habits rather as fun
than otherwise. But Elsie gave a groan. Two nights on a feather-bed!
How should she bear it!

Tea was ready in the kitchen when they went downstairs. A small fire
had been lighted to boil the water. It was almost out, but the room
felt stiflingly warm, and the butter was so nearly melted that Mrs.
Worrett had to help it with a tea-spoon. Buzzing flies hovered above
the table, and gathered thick on the plate of cake. The bread was
excellent, and so were the cottage cheeses and the stewed quinces; but
Elsie could eat nothing. She was in a fever of heat. Mrs. Worrett
was distressed at this want of appetite; and so was Mr. Worrett, to
whom the children had just been introduced. He was a kindly-looking
old man, with a bald head, who came to supper in his shirt-sleeves,
and was a thin as his wife was fat.

"I'm afraid the little girl don't like her supper, Lucinda," he said.
"You must see about getting her something different for to-morrow."

"Oh! it isn't that. Every thing is very nice, only, I'm not hungry,"
pleaded Elsie, feeling as if she should like to cry. She did cry a
little after tea, as they sat in the dusk; Mr. Worrett smoking his