Carolyn May went soberly back to her chair. She did not eat much more. Somehow there seemed to be a big lump in her throat past which she could not force the food. As the dusk fell, the spirit of loneliness gripped her, and the tears pooled behind her eyelids, ready to pour over her cheeks at the least “joggle.” Yet she was not usually a “cry-baby” girl. Aunty Rose was watching her more closely than Carolyn May supposed. After her third cup of tea she arose and began quietly clearing the table. The newcomer was nodding in her place, her blue eyes clouded with sleep and unhappiness. “It is time for you to go to bed, Car’lyn May,” said Aunty Rose firmly. “I will show you the room Hannah Stagg had for her own when she was a girl.” “Thank you, Aunty Rose,” said the little girl humbly. She picked up the bag and followed the stately old woman into the back hall and up the stairway into the ell. Carolyn May saw that at the foot of the stairs was a door leading out upon the porch where Prince was now moving about uneasily at the end of his leash. She would have liked to say “good-night” to Prince, but it seemed better not to mention this feeling to Aunty Rose. The fading hues of sunset in the sky gave the little girl plenty of light to undress by. She thought the room very beautiful, too. It was large, and the ceiling sloped at one side; the bed was wide and plump looking. It had four funny, spindle-shaped posts, and it was covered with a bright patchwork quilt of many tiny squares—quite an intricate pattern, Carolyn May thought. “Do you need any help, child?” asked Mrs. Kennedy, standing in her soldierly manner in the doorway. It was dusky there, and the little girl could not see her face. “Oh, no, ma’am,” said Carolyn May faintly. “I can button and unbutton every button. I learned long ago. And my nightie’s right in my bag here.” “Very well,” said Aunty Rose, and turned away. Carolyn May stood in the middle of the room and listened to her descending footsteps. _Aunty Rose had not even bidden her good-night!_ Like a marooned sailor upon a desert island, the little girl went about exploring the bedroom which was to be hers—and which had once been her mother’s. That fact helped greatly. Her mother had slept in this very bed—had looked into that cunning, clouded glass over the dressing table—had sat in this very little rocking chair to take off her shoes and stockings—had hung her dress, perhaps, over this other chair. Carolyn May kept repeating these things as she divested herself of her garments and got into the nightgown that Mrs. Price had freshly ironed for her. Then she looked at the high, “puffy” bed. “How ever _can_ I get into it?” sighed Carolyn May. She had to stand upon her tiptoes in her fluffy little bedroom slippers to pull back the quilt, and the blanket and sheet underneath it. The bed was just a great big bag of feathers!