the stairs and sought the old man, but every room was empty. At length
I found a little wooden staircase, that led higher and higher, to a
narrow door. I knocked; no answer. I lifted the wooden latch; it did
not open. I sat on the threshold, for I liked that wooden
staircase. It was like the one that leads to my own little chamber at
home, where Mary and I slept so sweetly together. I fancied what Mary
was doing at that moment. It must be night, and they must be wondering
where I was. I would try to find a window, and perhaps I could climb
out. I looked into every room. They were all lighted by windows, high,
high in the ceiling, and I could not hope to reach them. I returned to
the lady's mirrored room. There she sat in her hundred mirrors, but
she saw me not. I went into my little room, and weeping, fell asleep,
to dream that my mother wept for me at home.

In the morning, on first awakening, I wondered where Mary was, for I
forgot where I was myself; but the faint light, that fell like early
dawn through the high window, brought all to my remembrance. A fresh,
white dress lay upon my bed; I put it on, and glided down stairs. The
lady still sat by the fire. "Had she not slept?" I wondered. "Had she
not dreamed of flowers and falling dews, of rosy faces, and of
mother's love, as I had?" She arose silently, and I followed her to
the room where we had taken our supper the evening before. The old man
entered. The lady bowed her head low. I bowed mine. The dishes
appeared upon the table, I knew not from whence, and we again ate in
silence. The fruits were fair to see, but seemed to have no flavor,
no juice. The only drink was water, in crystal vases. How I did want a
cup of good old Brindle's milk, foaming and warm, as we have it at
home.

All that long day I wandered up and down. Once I saw the old man, at