Upon retiring to rest, a neat-looking servant with light hair, whose name I found was Harriet, came to the chintz-room, and asked whether she should do anything for me. She said she was one of the housemaids—there were two besides herself, Lizzy Dene and Emma. Altogether, including the coachman, a helper in the stables, and two gardeners—all four of whom were out of doors, living half a mile away—there were seventeen servants at Chandos. A large number, as it seemed to me, considering the very little attendance that was required of them. I told Harriet I had been accustomed to wait upon myself, and she retired. But I could not get to sleep. The conversation I had overheard kept haunting me. I wondered what the mystery could be; I wondered whether I should be disturbed in the night by noises, or else. What uncanny doings could there be in the house?—what unseemly inmates, rendering it inexpedient that a stranger should share its hospitality? Was it really tenanted by ghosts?—or by something worse? At any rate, they did not molest me, and my sleep at last was tranquil. We went down the following morning at half-past eight; Emily in a white dimity robe of no shape, but tied round the waist with a scarlet cord, the effect altogether rather untidy; I in a mauve-coloured muslin, with ribbons of the same shade; and found Lady and Mr. Chandos waiting breakfast in the oak-parlour. The panels of this room were of alternate white and carved oak, with a great deal of gilding about both; it had a most unusual appearance; I had never seen anything like it before. The ceiling was white, with gilt scrolls round it, and cornices. The large chimney-glass was in a carved oak frame, gilded in places to match the walls; the slanting girandole opposite the window, reflecting the green grass and the waving trees in its convex mirrored surface, had a similar frame. The chandelier for the wax lights was of gilt, also the branches on the mantelpiece, and those of the girandole. It was a pleasant room to enter—as I thought that morning. The oak-brown silk curtains, with their golden satin-wrought flowers, were drawn quite back from the windows, which were thrown open to the lovely morning air; a bright fire burnt in the grate opposite the door; the breakfast-table, with its snow-white linen, its painted Worcester china, and its glittering silver, was in the middle. Easy-chairs stood about the room, a sofa against the wall—all covered to match the curtains—brown and gold: a piano was there, a sideboard stood at the back, underneath the reflective mirror; other chairs, tables, ornaments; and the dark carpet was soft as the softest moss. Out of all order though cavillers for severe taste might have called the room, I know that it had an indescribable charm.