"There. That is well," said Madame von Marwitz with a sigh, bending to kiss her. "That is my child. Tante is sad at heart. It is a heavy blow. But her child is welcome." When she had gone Karen lay, her face in the billows of the bed, while she fixed her thoughts on Tante's last words. They became a sing-song monotone. "Tante is sad at heart. But her child is welcome. It is a heavy blow. But her child is welcome." After the anguish there was a certain ease. She rested in the given reassurance. Yet the sing-song monotone oppressed her. She felt presently that her hat, wrenched to one side, and still fixed to her hair by its pins, was hurting her. She unfastened it and dropped it to the floor. She felt too tired to do more just then. Soon after this the door opened and Mrs. Talcott appeared carrying a candle, a can of hot water, towels and sheets. Karen drew herself up, murmuring some vague words of welcome, and Mrs. Talcott, after setting the candle on the dressing-table and the hot water in the basin, remarked: "Just you lie down again, Karen, and let me wash your face for you. You must be pretty tired and dirty after that long journey." But Karen put her feet to the ground. They just sustained her. "Thank you, Mrs. Talcott. I will do it," she said. She bent over the water, and, while she washed, Mrs. Talcott, with deliberate skill, made up the bed. Karen sank in a chair. "You poor thing," said Mrs. Talcott, turning to her as she smoothed down the sheet; "Why you're green. Sit right there and I'll undress you. Yes; you're only fit to be put to bed." She spoke with mild authority, and Karen, under her hands, relapsed to childhood. "This all the baggage you've brought?" Mrs. Talcott inquired, finding a nightdress in Karen's dressing-case. She expressed no surprise when Karen said that it was all, passed the nightdress over her head and, when she had lain down, tucked the bed-clothes round her. "Now what you want is a hot-water bottle and some dinner. I guess you're hungry. Did you have any lunch on the train?" "I've had some chocolate and a bun and some milk, oh yes, I had enough," said Karen faintly, raising her hand to her forehead; "but I must be hungry; for my head aches so badly. How kind you are, Mrs. Talcott." "You lie right there and I'll bring you some dinner." Mrs. Talcott was swiftly tidying the room. "But what of yours, Mrs. Talcott? Isn't it your dinner-time?" "I've had my supper. I have supper early these days." Karen dimly reflected, when she was gone, that this was an innovation. Whoever Madame von Marwitz's guests, Mrs. Talcott had, until now, always made an _acte de présence_ at every meal. She was tired and not feeling well enough after her illness, she thought. Mrs. Talcott soon returned with a tray on which were set out hot _consommée_ and chicken and salad, a peach beside them. Hot-house fruit was never wanting when Madame von Marwitz was at Les Solitudes.