Thus it ran. The Grange, I should say, is the old Holroyd house, and Simcox, my father's bailiff for the estate. So much for two of those that sat so late in the hall. As for Ned, neither joy (if, as I suppose, some joy was in him) nor grief, of which he thought never through life to be rid, was to prevail against the oppression of sleep long denied. He slept as the dead sleep, till long after my father was abroad. But for a soporific commend me to a decoction of new-found love and great fatigue of body. It was from the pleasant action of this sleeping-draught that I awoke to find my chamber bathed in the first sunshine of many dreary days. And, as I lay with eyes half opened, I felt in my bosom a gladness answering to the sunshine without. And searching in my mind for the threads of memory that should join my life with the day that was past, and tell me the reason why I was glad, I found that the answer was Love. But a little cloud soon driving across the sun had also its inward response in my half-awakened spirit, and I asked myself was there then some evil thing in this sweet world of mine? And so I stumbled heavily upon the memory that Ned's love had in its fulness come to me in the very hour of disgrace. And then I awoke from a maid floating blissfully upon the sweet sea of conscious repose to the woman fain to pay the price of love in deeds for her lover. Prudence was not far, and I was not long in dressing. Having, however, more food for thought than use for my tongue, I by and by perceived that my little handmaid was very ready to make cause of a tiff out of my silence. This might have passed, for I thought with a gentle word or two and a smile to turn aside the coming storm. Nor had I much doubt of success in this, when, after watching my face a while in the mirror, she exclaimed: "Why, madam, how beautiful you appear this morning! One would think some great good thing had befallen you yesterday, rather than a great fatigue. You are vastly changed, madam." "Nay, Prudence, be not so fanciful," I cried, marking, nevertheless, in the mirror how the color rose in my face. "Pray, child, what difference do you find?" "It is hard to name," she answered, "but 't is there. Your regard is large and tender. Your eyes, madam--your eyes hold some secret of joy." Here she paused a while, turning her gaze from the mirror to my face itself. Then at length: "Why, madam, I have it," she cried; "you are in one night grown to be a woman!"