The old-fashioned furniture--what little there was of it--was covered with a prettily checked dimity. There were one or two simple, inexpensive prints on the walls, with an occasional bunch of dried ferns or grasses. Everything about the room was simple and inexpensive, and the few simple ornaments bore traces of home manufacture. Yet there was such an all-pervading air of homely comfort about it, such a restful look about everything in it, that it got to be quite a wonder how so very small a room could contain so much. It would have been impossible to keep from getting well in such a room. Of course, our friend did not observe all this at this time. It took him some time to exhaust all the wonders of that little room. There was something else that riveted his attention now. This is what he saw: A little square table in front of the red-brick fireplace, and a large, old-fashioned lamp, surmounted by an equally old-fashioned paper shade, was on the table. This he saw, only in an indistinct way, for every faculty he possessed seemed to be taken up and absorbed by that silent figure sitting on a low rocking-chair between the table and the open fire. She had been reading, for the book was lying open on her lap, partly covered by the little brown hands lying upon it; and now she sat with her head bent forward in deep thought, and with the white light of the lamp on one soft cheek, and the rosy glow of the fire flickering over the other, she made a very pretty picture indeed. Who was she? And how came she in his bedroom? Even while he wondered, she laid the book upon the table, and, bending forward, proceeded to unlace and remove her shoes, exposing a very tantalizing pair of ankles during the operation. Then moving her chair so as to place the two little brown-stockinged feet on the fender, she sat staring into the fire, apparently in deep contemplation of a small, a very small hole that she had discovered in one of her stockings. And he lay and stared, and wondered and wondered and stared. He had a mystified memory of a terrible storm and terrible suffering, but he could connect nothing of his past life with this girl. Who was she, and how came she there? Moving his head restlessly on the pillow, he attracted her attention, and in a moment she was bending over him. She spoke to him in a low, soft, pleasant voice, but he was too astonished to attempt an answer. Lifting his head gently from the pillow, she put a cup to his lips, and he drank, still staring at her. She was an angel--that was it. He must be dead, and that spot was where he had fallen through from the other world. Satisfied of this, and finding nothing at all incongruous in the idea of an angel wearing calfskin shoes and brown hand-knit stockings, he sank peacefully to sleep and forgot it all.