Patty drew her hand away from Philip's clasp, and put it over his mouth. "Stop!" she said, blushing furiously. "Don't you say another word! I'm _not_ afraid of mice, Mrs. Fay." "There, there, child; I know you are, and I don't blame you a mite. I am, too, or leastways, I used to be. I've kinder got over it of late years. But I know just how you feel. Now, let me tell you; _honest_, never a mouse dares show the tip of his nose outside the cellar! If you don't go down there, you're as safe as you would be up in a balloon. And I don't count none the less on you for acting skittish about 'em." "I don't mind it, either," said Philip, who was still holding Patty's hand by way of reassurance. "I shouldn't mind if you acted skittisher yet." But Patty drew her hand away, declaring that Mrs. Fay had quieted her fears entirely, and that if Eliza would promise to keep the cellar door shut, she wouldn't give another thought to the dreaded animals. After supper, the four played a game of old-fashioned whist, which delighted the two old ladies, though it seemed strange to Patty and Philip, who were both good bridge players. Then there was more music, and at ten o'clock Miss Winthrop informed them that it was bedtime. With considerable pride she took Patty up to the best spare room. "Now, I hope you'll be comfortable," she said, "and I'm sure you will be. Here's my best night-gown for you, and a dressing-gown and slippers. I don't need 'em,--I can get along. And here's a brush and comb. And now, that's everything you want, isn't it?" Patty was touched at the kindliness of the old lady, and though inwardly amused at the meagerness of her night appointments, she said, gratefully, "You're so kind to me, Miss Winthrop. Truly, I do appreciate it." "You sweet little thing," returned the old lady. "Now let me unhook you,--I should admire to do so." So Miss Winthrop assisted Patty to undress, and finally, after minute directions about the turning down and blowing out of the kerosene lamp, she went away. When Patty surveyed herself in the mirror, she almost laughed aloud. The night-dress was of thick, unbleached muslin, made with tight bands to button around the neck and wrists. These bands were edged with a row of narrow tatting; and it was this trimming, Patty felt sure, that differentiated Miss Winthrop's best night-gown from her others. Then Patty tried on the dressing-gown, which was of dark grey flannel. This, too, was severely plain, though voluminous in shape; and the slippers were of black felt, and quite large enough for Patty to put both feet in one. She arrayed herself in these things and gave way to silent laughter as she pirouetted across the room. But her amusement at the unattractive garments in no way lessened her real appreciation of the gentle kindliness and hospitality that had been accorded to her.