“Don’t shut the door,” Rosalie whispered; but it had closed silently even as she spoke. And here was darkness and cold dampness. She heard her heart beat wildly in the stillness, and groped for Mariana’s arm. It seemed cold and lifeless, having no animation. “Can’t we get a light?” she whispered, with dry lips, and her voice sounded hollow in her own hearing. “The light is farther down the passage.” That, at least, was reassurance. It was Mariana’s voice, no different from what it ever was, just as subdued and gentle. By degrees her eyes became accustomed to the intense gloom, and when Mariana turned on the one flickering light, she recognised a length of passage similar to that in the other two wings. But here the doors were all quite low, and made of plain black wood. There was no attempt at adornment. The floor was plain wood, the walls, the ceilings, and everything was dreary, damp, and cold. The doors, too, were numbered all in red, and it was before No. 13 that Mariana stopped. It opened to her touch, and together they entered. “This is the room I work in,” said Mariana, and again turned on one feeble light. It seemed the only one in the chamber. The black rafters of oak hung low above their heads, and their heaviness perhaps helped to increase the gloomy aspect of the place. A long table of deal ran down the centre, with a chair at either end. This table was covered with a white cloth reaching the ground on either side. Two chests of oak, shabby and worn, were the only articles of furniture the room possessed. The walls were whitewashed. Here and there the plaster had fallen from them, with a dispiriting effect. There was neither fireplace nor window in the room. “Can you work in here?” Rosalie asked, looking round with an involuntary shiver. “Yes. One becomes accustomed to surroundings. I never notice them; I’m too absorbed.” She went to the table and drew away the cloth, folding it, and placing it upon one of the vacant chairs. Below, a shimmer of satin, and gold, and silver, all strikingly in contrast to the bareness and poorness of the room, met the eye. “How lovely!” said Rosalie, drawing her breath. “Do you know, I thought that big white cloth was the material, and it looked to my eyes more like a shroud.” “This is only the material,” said Mariana. “I finished it the day you came, after being engaged on it three years. It is all hand-spun and woven, but now I’ve put the loom and spinning-wheel away in those big chests. One does not want too many things about.” “But who taught you?” “Oh! it is knowledge one acquires. It needs a certain kind of brain and a given pattern, that is all.” Then she went over to one of the chests and opened it, and took from it a parcel which she untied. It contained a quantity of most lovely lace, the like of which Rosalie had never seen before. “Did you make this?” she asked.