"My name is Sylvia Cary--Mrs. Mortimer Cary, I mean." She shivered, paused, and went on. "I live in New York--that is, I always have--I'm never going to any more, if I can help it. My husband died two months ago, my baby--just before that. I've felt so--so--tired ever since, I just had to get away somewhere--away from the noise, and the hurry, and the crowds of people I know. I was in Hamstead once, ten years ago, and I remembered it, and came back. I want most dreadfully to stay--could you possibly make room for me here?" "Oh, you poor lamb! I'd do anything I could for you--but this ain't the sort of home you've been used to--" began Mrs. Gray; but she was interrupted. "No, no, of course it isn't! Don't you understand--I can't bear what I've been used to another minute! And I'll honestly try not to be a bit of trouble if you'll only let me stay!" Mrs. Gray twisted in her chair, fingering her apron. "Well, now, I don't know! You've come so sudden-like--if I'd only had a little notice! There's no place fit for a lady like you; but there are two rooms we never use--the northeast parlor and the parlor-chamber off it. You could have one of them--after I got it cleaned up a mite--an' try it here for a while." "Couldn't I have them both? I'd like a sitting-room as well as a bedroom." "Land! You ain't even seen 'em yet! maybe they won't suit you at all! But, come, I'll show 'em to you an' if you want to stay, you shan't go back to that filthy hotel. I'll get the bedroom so's you can sleep in it to-night--just a lick an' a promise; an' to-morrow I'll house-clean 'em both thorough, if 't is the Sabbath--the 'better the day, the better the deed,' I've heard some say, an' I believe that's true, don't you, Mrs. Cary?" She bustled ahead, pulling up the shades, and flinging open the windows in the unused rooms. "My, but the dust is thick! Don't you touch a thing--just see if you think they'll do." Sylvia Cary glanced quickly about the two great square rooms, with their white wainscotting, and shutters, their large, stopped-up fireplaces, dingy wall-paper, and beautiful, neglected furniture. "Indeed they will!" she exclaimed; "they'll be lovely when we get them fixed. And may I truly stay--right now? I brought my hand-bag with me, you see, hoping that I might, and my trunks are still at the station--wait, I'll give you the checks, and perhaps your son will get them after supper."