Miss Rossiter sobbed aloud, while Mrs. Barton tried to comfort her, and said it was hard, and that, if it would be any comfort to her dear friend, she would not call upon the intruder, or let her daughter Rosamond call either. That would be some consolation, for Mrs. Grey Barton, of the Ridge House, was a sort of queen in the neighborhood since Lady Emily died, and a slight from her was sure to be felt; so Miss Rossiter allowed herself to be comforted, and, after dinner, drove herself home in the soft, autumnal twilight. Edith was standing on the piazza when she came up the steps, and asked if she had spent a pleasant day. “Yes, it is always pleasant at the Ridge. Mrs. Barton is considered the first lady in the town,” Miss Rossiter replied, as she swept proudly up the stairs, feeling that by enlightening Edith with regard to Mrs. Barton’s standing she was preparing her to feel the slight about to be offered her. It was not light enough in her room for her to see anything distinctly when she entered it, and she laid aside her hat and shawl and turned up the gas before she observed the change. Then she started and looked again, and rubbed her eyes, and wondered if she were threatened with softening of the brain, as she had sometimes feared, and saw things which existed only in her imagination. No, there was no fancy here. The airy, graceful bedstead of oak and black walnut, which she had left there that morning, was gone, and in its place loomed the huge, old-fashioned thing, on which she would not sleep for the world. For a moment she stood, wondering what she should do. “Hallo, auntie, what’s the matter? Don’t you like it? You are white as a sheet,” came cheerily from Godfrey, who was sauntering down the hall “You see I thought I’d surprise you, and I worked like a beaver to get it set up. It’s all right, I hope.” “Yes, Godfrey, yes,” Miss Rossiter gasped. “It was kind in you, but—but——” “But what, auntie? It is not a _potted sprat_, I hope. You told me that story, you know, and illustrated it, too, when I didn’t want to go to school, and said I was sick, and you made me lie in bed all day and take those nasty squills. Don’t you really want it in there?” “No, Godfrey. I thought I did, but I guess I don’t. I’m silly, and nervous, and all unstrung with trouble, and I can see my poor sister so plain. You know she died on it. I should not sleep a wink, and I—I—oh, Godfrey,—oh, Godfrey,—take it away, do, please, there is a good boy!” She was crying a little and trembling a great deal, and as Godfrey never could resist tears, he promised readily, and passing his arm playfully around her waist, drew her into the room, and said: “All right, let’s go at it now. You ring the bell and I’ll pull it to pieces.”