After the purgatory of the stair Kirsteen found herself in a paradise of cleanliness and order, in a little lantern of light and brightness. There were three small rooms--a kitchen, a parlour so called, with a concealed bed which made it fit for the combined purposes of a sleeping and living room, and the bedroom proper into which she was immediately conducted, and which was furnished with a tent-bed, hung with large-patterned chintz, each flower about the size of a warming-pan, and with a clean knitted white quilt which was the pride of Jean Macgregor’s heart. There was a concealed bed in this room too, every contrivance being adopted for the increase of accommodation. Perhaps concealed beds are still to be found in the much-divided “lands” in which poor tenants congregate in the poorer parts of Glasgow. They were formed by a sort of closet completely filled by the spars and fittings of a bed, and closed in by a dismal door, thus securing the exclusion of all air from the hidden sleeping-place. The decent woman, who was Marg’ret’s old friend, took Kirsteen’s bundle from her hands, and opening it, spread out the contents on the bed. “I’ll just hang them out before the fire to give them air, and take out the creases. And, mem, I hope you’ll make yoursel’ at home and consider a’ here as your ain.” “Did ye know I was coming?” said Kirsteen, surprised. “Only this morning. I got a scart of the pen from Marg’ret Brown, that is my cousin and a great friend, though I have not seen her this twenty years. She said it was one o’ the family, a young leddy that had to travel to London, and no man nor a maid could be spared to gang with her; and I was to see ye into the coach, and take good care of ye; and that I will, my bonny leddy, baith for her sake, and because ye’ve a kind face of your ain that makes a body fain.” In the relief of this unexpected reception, and after the misery of the approach to it which had sunk Kirsteen’s courage, she sat down and cried a little for pleasure. “I am glad ye think I’ve a kind face, for oh, I have felt just like a reprobate, hating everything I saw,” she cried. “It’s all so different--so different--from home.” Home had been impossible a few days ago; it looked like heaven--though a heaven parted from her by an entire lifetime--now. “Weel,” said the old woman, “we canna expect that Glasco, a miserable, black, dirty town as ever was, can be like the Hielands with its bonny hills and its bright sun. But, my honey, if ye let me say sae, there’s good and bad in baith places, and Glasco’s no so ill as it looks. Will ye lie down and take a bit rest, now you’re here--or will I make ye a cup of tea? The broth will not be ready for an hour. If I had kent sooner I would have got ye a chuckie or something mair delicate; but there wasna time.”