valley were supplied. She had put on a white flannel dressing-gown
and moved noiselessly about in it, the very embodiment of order,
of purity, of quiet energy. The little white-curtained room was
bareness and neatness itself. There were a few book-shelves along
the walls, holding the books which her father had given her. Over
the bed were two enlarged portraits of her parents, and a line of
queer little faded monstrosities, representing Rose and Agnes in
different stages of childhood. On the table beside the bed was a
pile of well-worn books--Keble, Jeremy Taylor, the Bible--connected
in the mind of the mistress of the room with the intensest moments
of the spiritual life. There was a strip of carpet by the bed, a
plain chair or two, a large press; otherwise no furniture that was
not absolutely necessary, and no ornaments. And yet, for all its
emptiness, the little room in its order and spotlessness had the
look and spell of a sanctuary.

When her task was finished Catherine came forward to the infinitesimal
dressing-table, and stood a moment before the common cottage
looking-glass upon it. The candle behind her showed her the outlines
of her head and face in shadow against the white ceiling. Her soft
brown hair was plaited high above the broad white brow, giving to
it an added stateliness, while it left unmasked the pure lines of
the neck. Mrs. Thornburgh and her mother were quite right. Simple
as the new arrangement was, it could hardly have been more effective.

But the looking-glass got no smile in return for its information.
Catherine Leyburn was young; she was alone; she was being very
plainly told that, taken as a whole, she was, or might be at any
moment, a beautiful woman. And all her answer was a frown and a
quick movement away from the glass. Putting up her hands she began