"Poor little soul," he said. "You have had a long evening to yourself, haven't you?" "I don't mind," replied Maria. She was thinking of the torn wall-paper, and she did not look her father fully in the eyes. "Has she been asleep ever since I went?" inquired Harry, in a whisper. "Yes, sir." "Poor little girl. Well, it will be livelier by-and-by for you. We'll have company, and more going on." Harry then went close to Mrs. Addix, sitting with her head resting on her shoulder, still snoring with those puffs of heavy breath. "Mrs. Addix," he said. Mrs. Addix did not stir; she continued to snore. "Mrs. Addix!" repeated Harry, in a louder tone, but still the sleeping woman did not stir. "Good Lord, what a sleeper!" said Harry, still aloud. Then he shook her violently by the shoulder. "Come, Mrs. Addix," said he, in a shout; "I've got home, and I guess you'll want to be going yourself." Mrs. Addix moved languidly, and glanced up with a narrow slit of eye, as dull as if she had been drugged. Harry shook her again, and repeated his announcement that he was home and that she must want to go. At last he roused her, and she stood up with a dazed expression. Maria got her bonnet and shawl, and she gazed at them vaguely, as if she were so far removed from the flesh that the garments thereof perplexed her. Maria put on her bonnet, standing on tiptoe, and Harry threw the shawl over her shoulders. Then she staggered out of the room with a mumbled good-night. "Take care of the stairs, and do not fall," Harry said. He himself held the light for her, until she was safely down, and the outer door had closed after her. "The fresh air will wake her up," he said, laughing. "Not very lively company, is she, dear?" "No, sir," replied Maria, simply. Harry looked lovingly at her, then his eyes fell on the door of the room which had been papered that day. It occurred to him to go in and see how the new paper looked. "Come in with father, and let's see the improvements," he said, in a gay voice, to Maria. Maria followed him into the room. It would have been difficult to say whether triumphant malice and daring, or fear, prevailed in her heart. Harry, carrying the lamp, entered the room, with Maria slinking at his heels. The first thing he saw was the torn paper. "Hullo!" said he. He approached the bay-window with his lamp. "Confound those paperers!" he said. For a minute Maria did not say a word. She was not exactly struggling with temptation; she had inherited too much from her mother's Puritan ancestry to make the question of a struggle possible when the duty of truth stared her, as now, in the face. She simply did not speak at once because the thing appeared to her stupendous, and nobody, least of all a child, but has a threshold of preparation before stupendous things.