On entering the street door they found themselves in a large hall, at the farther end of which a bright wood fire was burning, despite the season. A black oak table was on one side of the room against the wall, upon which were to be seen a number of earthen beakers and a great silver jug or tankard. A carved and cushioned settle stood against the opposite wall, and besides two comfortable arm-chairs at the two chimney-corners there were two or three heavy chairs of antique pattern standing here and there. The floor was covered with newly gathered fresh-smelling rushes. A wide staircase led to the right, and to this Phoebe turned at once as though she had always lived there. "Hast heard from my father yet?" she asked, pausing upon the first stair and addressing Dame Goldsmith. "Nay, girl. Not so much as a word. I trow he'll have but little to say to me. Ay--ay--a humorous limb, thy father, lass." She swept out of the room with a toss of the head, and Phoebe smiled as she turned to climb the stairs. Immediately she turned again and held out one hand to Rebecca. "Come along, Rebecca. Let's run 'long up," she said, relapsing into her old manner. She led the way without hesitation to a large, light bedroom, the front of which hung over the street. Here, too, the floor was covered with sweet rushes, a fact which Rebecca seemed to resent. "Why the lands sakes do you suppose these London folks dump weeds on their floors?" she asked. "An' look there at those two beds, still unmade and all tumbled disgraceful!" "Why, there's where we slept last night, Rebecca," said Phoebe, laughing as she dropped into a chair. "As for the floors," she continued, "they're always that way when folks ain't mighty rich. The lords and all have carpets and rugs." Rebecca, stepping very high to avoid stumbling in the rushes, moved over to the dressing-table and proceeded to remove her outer wraps, having first deposited her bag and umbrella on a chair. "I don't see how in gracious you know so much about it," she remarked, querulously. "'Pon my word, you acted with that young jackanapes an' that fat old lady downstairs jest's ef you'd allus known em." "Well, so I have," Phoebe replied, smiling. "I knew them all nearly three hundred years before you were born, Rebecca Wise." Rebecca dropped into a chair and looked helplessly at her sister with her arms hanging at her sides. "Phoebe Wise--" she began. "No, not now!" Phoebe exclaimed, stopping her sister with a gesture. "You must call me Mistress Mary. I'm Mary Burton, daughter of Isaac Burton, soon to be Sir Isaac Burton, of Burton Hall. You are my dear old tiring-woman--my sometime nurse--and thou must needs yield me the respect and obedience as well as the love thou owest, thou fond old darling!" The younger woman threw her arms about the other's neck and kissed her repeatedly. Rebecca sat mute and impassive, making no return. "Seems as though I ought to wake up soon now," she muttered, weakly.