"It would be all her own. Her little bed would be made, soft and white, and her books would be in the book-shelf, and she would come upstairs to find her little pink dressing-gown on the back of a chair, and her little pink slippers to thrust her feet into, and a bunch of roses on the dressing-table, and all her little fal-lals about, and no one would bother or disturb her." "She would be a very happy girl," said I, meeting the old lady's rapturous gaze. "I always wanted a girl of my own. I would have known how to be good to one. But the Lord didn't see fit to send me any babies. I've got this little room ready, as if it were for the little daughter or granddaughter I never had. I think I shall have ... a young lady ... coming soon ... on a visit." Now I knew as well as if she had told me that all this was for Esther, but I did not betray my knowledge. "Would you think now that she'd be so happy that, when she came on a visit, she'd be willing to stay altogether?" "I should not be at all surprised," said I. After all, there was no reason why Esther shouldn't come to Lady O'Brien and be happy. She would not be far from us, and of late the close companionship that used to exist between Esther and myself had somehow lessened. Esther, more than of old, seemed to like to be alone, and I no longer knew all her thoughts and feelings as of old. I came out of the room with a little sigh, but as I met the bright, wistful old eyes, I nodded reassuringly. "There can be no doubt at all about it," said I, "no doubt at all. If she could resist that room, she couldn't resist the love that made it ready for her. Not if I know what girls are made of." "Thank you, my dear," said the old lady simply. "I feel that she is going to stay." She locked the door and put the key in her pocket, and we rejoined the others. Of course I kept my own counsel about Lady O'Brien's secret room, and gave myself up more and more to the companionship of my books and papers. They, at least, would not fail me. And then I have always Paudeen, of whom I have been saying too little in this narrative. CHAPTER XIII. CINDERELLA. The summer had turned round to autumn before Lady O'Brien broached her project about Esther. I think she waited till she had us all bound fast to her by ties of affection and gratitude. Things were much the same with us, except that Pierce had grown a little thinner, a little more pinched and peaked like an old man, and a little weaker every day. His couch now was in Aline's octagon room, and, though the autumn was a fine one, fires were pleasant. We were there one day, Pierce and I, and Paudeen at Pierce's feet. A little wood fire sparkled in the grate, though outside the world was full of brightness--brightness of blue sky and yellow sun, and golden and scarlet woods. The leaves were beginning to fall, and old Brandon's shoulders were visible now, where a month ago we could only see the top of his head.