“Thank you very much,” said the young lady. “You’re welcome, honey. Now, then, come to bed,” she added, as she led the way through the back door to a narrow passage from which a staircase ascended to the upper room. Gloria picked up her carpet-bag and followed her conductress. The room above was of the same size with the one below—like that, the walls were of hewn stone, unplastered, but the floor was of heavy oak planks. There were three large windows in front, all hung with coarse blue and white plaid cotton curtains. There was a fireplace, a size smaller than the one below; a pine table, with a small standing looking-glass on it, under the middle window, opposite the fire. There were two beds in the corners of the room, with their low head-boards immediately under the two end windows, on each side of the rude dressing-table. One of these beds was smoothly made up, as if waiting its occupant. The other was tumbled and tenanted. “Come here,” said Mrs. Brent in a whisper, going towards the latter. Gloria followed her and beheld the sleeper, who, in some restlessness, had thrown off the cover, revealing her head, breast and arms. She was a very young girl, with a delicate face and fragile form, fair, transparent complexion, blooming rosy-red on cheeks and lips, very light, golden-red hair clustering in glittering tendrils around the white forehead and roseate cheeks, and with petite features. She would have been a perfect little beauty but for some irregularities that were even more piquante and charming than any classic perfection could possibly be. First, her dark brown eyebrows were of the fly-away pattern, depressed towards the bridge of the nose and raised towards the temples. Her tiny nose, no bigger than a baby’s, was the most dainty, yet the most decided pug that ever was seen. Her upper lip was short, and her chin pointed. The whole character and expression of the fair, dainty, petite face, was sly, roguish, mischievous, not to say impish and malign. One arm, the under one, as she lay upon her right side, was drawn back with crooked elbow and clenched little fist. The other arm, the upper one, was thrown over the pillow, also with crooked elbow and clenched little fist. The attitude of the little sleeping beauty was a belligerent one. “Now that’s my niece Philly—Philippa, you know, ma’am—and that’s the way she always sleeps. Just like a kitten or a puppy that is dreaming of a fight. Now just you watch!” With these words, Mrs. Brent took hold of the shoulder of the sleeper, exclaiming: “Phil! Phil! Wake up! Move farther! You’ll tumble out of the bed!” The sleeper gave a little growl and a great bounce, and threw herself over on her other side, striking another aggressive attitude, and immediately relapsed into deep sleep. Gloria could not help laughing as she said: “She is very pretty and very good-humored, I am sure, notwithstanding that she dreams of fights!”