Mrs. Gray twisted in her chair, fingering her apron. "Well, now, I
don't know! You've come so sudden-like--if I'd only had a little
notice! There's no place fit for a lady like you; but there are two
rooms we never use--the northeast parlor and the parlor-chamber off it.
You could have one of them--after I got it cleaned up a mite--an' try
it here for a while."

"Couldn't I have them both? I'd like a sitting-room as well as a
bedroom."

"Land! You ain't even seen 'em yet! maybe they won't suit you at all!
But, come, I'll show 'em to you an' if you want to stay, you shan't go
back to that filthy hotel. I'll get the bedroom so's you can sleep in it
to-night--just a lick an' a promise; an' to-morrow I'll house-clean 'em
both thorough, if 't is the Sabbath--the 'better the day, the better the
deed,' I've heard some say, an' I believe that's true, don't you, Mrs.
Cary?" She bustled ahead, pulling up the shades, and flinging open the
windows in the unused rooms. "My, but the dust is thick! Don't you touch
a thing--just see if you think they'll do."

Sylvia Cary glanced quickly about the two great square rooms, with their
white wainscotting, and shutters, their large, stopped-up fireplaces,
dingy wall-paper, and beautiful, neglected furniture. "Indeed they will!"
she exclaimed; "they'll be lovely when we get them fixed. And may I
truly stay--right now? I brought my hand-bag with me, you see, hoping
that I might, and my trunks are still at the station--wait, I'll give you
the checks, and perhaps your son will get them after supper."

She put the bag on a chair, and began to open it, hurriedly, as if