’This is intolerable,’ muttered Mrs. Maclehose; ’I cannot lie and listen to it; ’tis inhuman.’ She got out of bed and slid her feet into little slippers that had high red heels and no backs to them. She threw on her wrapper, and taking the rush-light in her hand, opened the door softly and listened. The passage was dark and cold. To her left, a wooden stair led upwards. From that region the sobbing came. ’’Tis some fellow-creature in distress,’ thought the kind little guest. ’Most likely but some servant-lass in a scrape, and in terror of her mistress: God knows I’d be the same. I’ll go up—a comforting word never came amiss.’ She set forth, but the red heels made such a tap, tapping on the bare boards, that she was terrified; she slipped off her shoes and crept bare-foot up the stair. She knocked at the first door she came to, which was the right one. The sobbing ceased at once, but no one answered. Then she lifted the latch softly and looked in. What she saw was the bare little room with the deep-set window where Alison slept with her little brother. The child’s cot was beside her bed, empty, for her misbehaviour had deprived her of Jacky. Alison sat up in bed, so dazed by the light that she could scarcely see the little figure with bare feet, and in the pink wrapper, with the neat lacy night-cap over the dark hair. Nancy could much more advantageously see a grey-eyed girl whose face was wet with tears, and whose childish curls tumbled about her neck and ears. ’Now, this is no servant-lass,’ said Mrs. Maclehose to herself, and then, aloud, ’My love, don’t be frightened, I beg! I heard someone crying in the night, and thought I might be helpful. If ’tis an intrusion, forgive me, and I’ll go away.’ Alison stared at the speaker with parted lips. ’Who are you?’ she murmured. The little lady laughed softly, closed the door gently, and came nearer, shading the light with her hand. ’You may well ask,’ said she, ’since I only came to-day! But tell me first who _you_ are—come!’ She deposited the rush-light on a chair, and plumping herself down on the edge of the bed, drew up her little bare feet under her, and peered into Alison’s face with the most coaxing, the most beguiling, air in the world. ’I am Alison Graham,’ stammered the daughter of the house. ’What! another of them?’ cried Mrs. Maclehose, aghast; ’why, I saw a host—four—five—six; you’re never a seventh, surely?’ ’Yes,’ said Alison, dolorously. ’There are seven of us: I am the oldest.’ ’But you were not there, or spoken of,’ persisted Mrs. Maclehose, scenting a mystery. ’Were you ill, love?’ Alison turned her head away. ’No, not ill,’ she said, truthful always, ’but—but my mother was not pleased with me, and so I was not down the stair.’ Mrs. Maclehose put a soft little hand under Alison’s chin, and turned the reluctant face towards her.