“Judy is fast asleep. She dropped asleep first in this chair here, and afterward, when I got her to bed, she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow,” Palma told him with a smile. “And you?” inquired Stuart. “Oh! I am not at all sleepy. I feel too much elated by the arrival of all these people. I wonder what Mrs. Pole will think when she finds out that we have a visitor staying with us?” “Doesn’t she know, Palma?” “Why, no, Cleve. She went to bed before the colonel left us, and how could she know that the girl remained behind? And I wonder what she will say?” “Well, Palma, I think she will disapprove.” “But you don’t, Cleve?” “Not at all, dear. I am glad you took the girl in. We will find a room for her to-morrow.” The clock struck twelve, yet still the young couple sat talking to each other like a pair of lovers loath to say good-night, as any young “courting couple” could possibly be; for, in fact, they were now sweethearts. Palma, we know, had always loved Cleve; but only since their marriage had Cleve been growing every day more in love with his wife. So they sat and talked, or sat in silence over the fire, until the clock struck two. “Now, my dear, you must really go to bed, even if you are not sleepy,” said Stuart, rising and standing up, as much as to say, “Here I shall stand until you go.” “You turn me out, then?” “Yes, I turn you out!” Palma stood on tiptoes to kiss him good-night. He lifted her in his arms and kissed her again and again, and then set her down, and she vanished through the damask portières into the little bedroom. Stuart threw off his coat and lay down on the sofa. It was a short sofa with a low back and two arms. Cleve’s head lay upon one arm and his legs dangled over the other. The discomfort of the position would have kept him from sleep even if the apartment had been quiet, which it was not. Palma’s entrance had waked Judy. The girl had had three hours’ sound sleep and had waked up refreshed in mind and body, delighted to find herself in such a rare, beautiful little room and with such a lovely companion. She felt no inclination to sleep more just then—but to talk. A kindly yet indiscreet question from Palma set her tongue going, and she talked on and never stopped until she had told her whole story. As there was nothing but the red damask portières that separated the little chamber from the little parlor, Stuart heard the whole of that story; he could not help hearing it. Once or twice he hemmed to let the narrator know that he was awake and listening; but that made no difference to Judy. She had no secrets. “All the birds of the air” were welcome to hear her history. It was near daylight when at length she had talked herself to sleep. As for Palma, she had dozed through the narrative, though Judy had not suspected it.