"Pshaw! what does it matter getting wet?" she returned, with a little scorn; but nevertheless she suffered Phillis to take her arm and draw her gently towards the house. Only as they came near the library window, she pointed to it indignantly. "Who has dared to enter that room, or open the window! Have I not forbidden over and over again that that room should be used? Do you think," she continued, in the same excited way, "that I would enter that room to-night of all nights! Why, I should hear his angry voice pealing in every corner! It was a good room for echoes; and he could speak loudly if he chose. Come away! there is a door I always use that leads to my private apartments. I am no recluse; but in these moods I do not care to show myself to people. If you are not afraid, you may come with me, unless you prefer Miss Mewlstone's company." "I would rather go with you," returned Phillis, gently. She could not in truth say she was not afraid; but all the same she must try and soothe the poor creature who was evidently enduring such torments of mind: so she followed in silence up the broad oak staircase. A green-baize door admitted them into a long and somewhat narrow corridor, lighted up by a row of high narrow windows set prettily with flower-boxes. Here there were several doors. Mrs. Cheyne paused before one a moment. "Look here! you shall see the mysteries of the west wing. This is my world; downstairs I am a different creature--taciturn, harsh, and prone to sarcasm. Ask Mr. Drummond what he thinks of me; but I never could endure a good young man--especially that delicious compound of the worldling and the saint--like the Reverend Archibald. See here, my dear: here I am never captious or say naughty things!" She threw open the door, and softly beckoned to Phillis to enter. It was a large empty room,--evidently a nursery. Some canaries were twittering faintly in a gilded cage. There were flowers in the two windows, and in the vases on the table: evidently some loving hands had arranged them that very morning. A large rocking-horse occupied the centre of the floor: a doll lay with its face downwards on the crimson carpet; a pile of wooden soldiers strutted on their zigzag platform,--one or two had fallen off; a torn picture-book had been flung beside them. "That was my Janie's picture-book," said Mrs. Cheyne, mournfully: "she was teaching her doll out of it just before she was taken ill. Nothing was touched; by a sort of inspiration,--a foreboding,--I do not know what,--I bade nurse leave the toys as they were. 'It is only an interrupted game: let the darlings find their toys as they put them,' I said to her that morning. Look at the soldiers, Bertie was always for soldiers,--bless him!"