"Watson, show Lady Canning her apartment. They have been newly furnished for you, my dear child, and I have not only followed Thurston’s written injunctions, but, in addition, carried out some of my own." Thurston raised her hand, which he was holding, to his lips. She smiled on him fondly. "I hope you will like your rooms, Indiana." "I am sure I shall, Lady Canning," said Indiana, with a bright smile and a mental resolve to like them very much. She had recovered from the tearful stage and felt now quite equal to her surroundings. "And you will find your maid a very competent person—she brought the highest references," added Lady Canning. Thurston led her to the door, pressing a kiss on her forehead. "Is everyone old here?" thought Indiana, as Watson, a very elderly woman with snow-white hair, led the way, mounting the stairs with difficulty. "I don’t like old people to wait on me. I shall feel more like waiting on them." However, she found the maid Lady Canning had selected, a very young, cheerful person. The gloomy impression she had received below was counteracted by her own suite of rooms, which were cheerfully and lightly furnished, in the daintiest of coloring. The boudoir was hung in shades varying from rose to palest pink; the ceiling hollowed and tinted to imitate a sea-shell; fairy-like crystal fixtures gleamed from the walls. There were a few treasures of art here and there amidst the draperies. A Greuze, hung in the best light, attracted Indiana immediately. Pink roses filled every available spot, in fragile vases of Venetian glass of the dolphin design. Indiana felt an impulse of gratitude toward Lady Canning for these preparations, in which loving care and the most exquisite taste were apparent. Minute attention had been paid to detail—no possible contrivance for her comfort overlooked. The maid told her that Lady Canning, herself, had arranged the flowers in the boudoir and upon the dressing-table. "I must have acted like a fool at first," thought Indiana, fastening a pink rose, from one of the vases, in the breast of her travelling-dress, before going down. "When she said something about being a mother to me—that set me off. Poor ma! I hope she isn’t fretting. I can’t forget dad yet, as he looked when he wished me good-bye." Stillwater had not allowed his wife to go down to the steamer—he thought she had suffered enough. Mrs. Bunker remained with her daughter. When Indiana waved her handkerchief as the steamer left the dock, he thought of the day when she was laid in his arms. "She is very young, Thurston," remarked Lady Canning, after Indiana had left the library, "a mere child."