The bed had deep hangings of red silk, and she was not up to date enough to tear them down as breeding microbes and all things unhealthy. Then by degrees, her eyes travelling beyond the bed, she gradually became acquainted with the other things within the room, washstand, dressing-table, sofa, chairs; and here Rosalie gave a squeal of delight, and jumped out of bed, for there opposite was a wardrobe, as respectable as carved black oak could make it. But it was not the wardrobe that attracted her attention so much as the mirror set full length in its middle door—a mirror larger than she had ever seen before or dreamt about. Rosalie was not vain, but she had always entertained a great longing to see her feet at the same time as her head, and had thought it only a luxury and privilege accorded to the rich. When she had become accustomed to this novel vision she walked over towards the windows. Here, so far as beauty was concerned, a disappointment waited on her. All three of them looked upon a high blank wall opposite. It gave a sense of extreme dulness to the place. Just then her explorations and discoveries were cut short by a knock at the door, and on it entered a woman carrying a tray holding a cup of tea. Rosalie, who understood nothing of this sort of thing, stared at it and the bearer. “I’m quite better now, thank you,” she said, shaking her head. “I was a little tired last night. I’d rather not have my breakfast in bed, if you don’t mind.” “This is not your breakfast,” said the other, in a voice so well modulated that many seemingly more exalted might have envied it. “Oh, what is it?” said Rosalie, standing still with her hands behind her looking at it. “A cup of tea to help you to dress.” She had the sweetest voice imaginable. Rosalie thought it the saddest she had ever heard. “I shan’t be ten minutes dressing,” she replied decidedly. “Quite an hour, I should say,” replied the other. “Oh!” gasped Rosalie. Then she clapped her hands together, caught up the flowing robe and skipped across the room to the bed. “If I’m not dressed in ten minutes, my name’s not Rosalie Paleaf.” Then with a sudden change to alarm in her manner, she turned round, growing alternately hot and cold. “I say, where are my things? I can’t see them anywhere.” “I took them away last night. There are your clothes for the day.” And she directed her attention to a chair on which some very pretty and expensive _lingerie_ was laid. Rosalie looked at it, then drew herself up. “I want my own clothes,” she said. “These are too good for me; the others might be poor, but they were my own.” “I am afraid you cannot have them; you must dress in these.” The tears rose in Rosalie’s eyes. “I want my own clothes,” she said again. “Auntie and I cut and made them together. They were the last pair of stockings that she ever knit.” There was no answer. “Won’t you bring them back?” said Rosalie at last, the tears still standing in her eyes.