The sudden glare of the light showed a rude apartment, with an earth floor, log walls, and a fire-place of unhewn stone. On the right of the fire-place stood a poor bedstead, upon which lay a venerable, white-haired old man, covered with a faded counterpane, and near the bed sat an old, chip-bottomed arm-chair. On the left of the fire-place were two rough plank shelves, the lower shelf adorned with a few pewter plates and mugs; the upper one filled with——books!—piles of old dingy, musty books; and near these shelves stood a spinning-wheel, with a broach of yarn on the spindle, and a basket of broaches under it. At the opposite end of the room, one corner was occupied by a little old oak table, and the other by a ladder leading up through a trap-door into the loft overhead. A few rude stools were ranged along the walls, junks of smoked venison, ropes of onions, bunches of dried herbs, hanks of yarn, and the old man’s old hat and coat garnished the walls. All this was seen at a glance. “Is your grandfather sick?” inquired Frank. The girl turned her eyes wistfully towards the venerable sleeper, and did not reply. “Is your grandfather sick?” repeated Fairfax. The child raised her eyes sorrowfully to the face of the young man, and remained silent. “Is he so _very_ sick?” earnestly reiterated Frank. “He is not sick, sir,” answered the girl, in a low, sad voice. “What is the matter with him, then?” thoughtlessly persisted Frank. Without reply, the girl dropped her eyes, and blushing deeply, turned away. Setting the candle down upon the table, she took a pail of water and went up the ladder, and into the loft. After an absence of a few minutes, she returned, and said— “If you will go up stairs now, you will find two suits of grandfather’s and Carl’s Sunday clothes. They are not fine, but they are clean and dry.” Our wet and jaded travellers thanked their young hostess, and prepared to accept her offer. “And if,” she added, “you would like to rest after so much fatigue, there is a bed.” They reached the loft, and found it a small, low place, with a little window, and a little, clean bed. On the bed lay the two suits of homespun, and two coarse towels. And on a stool near, sat a pail of water and a tin basin. “I do believe that little girl has given us her own sanctuary. What a dear little thing she is!—so full of courage, and shyness, too! If she were two or three years older, and a great deal prettier, I could fancy myself writing poetry about her,” said Frank. Clifton made no comment—he was engaged in divesting himself of his wet garments, and thinking about—Miss Clifton. When they had refreshed themselves by washing and changing their dress, Frank threw himself upon the bed, stretched out his limbs luxuriously, and declared that the rustic’s clothes were very loose and comfortable, and his own position truly delightful. Captain Clifton walked to the window, and looked out at the storm, which was now abating.