"Which is extremely natural; at the same time wicked, I suppose. Now, Mollie, don't try to keep awake and talk, because the journey is long and dreary. Follow Mrs. Sharpe's example and go to sleep." He wrapped her up closer; and Mollie, with a delicious sense of safety, and comfort, and sleepiness, cuddled close in her wraps and felt luxuriously happy. She had slept very little of late. Tears had been her nightly portion, instead of slumber. Now she was happy and at rest; and the very rush of the swift wind, as they bowled along, made her drowsy. She leaned her head against his arm and fell fast asleep. CHAPTER XXIII. PRIVATE THEATRICALS. It was broad day when Mollie awoke, the sun shining brilliantly. She started up on her elbow, bewildered, and gazed around. She was lying on a lounge in a strange room, and Mrs. Susan Sharpe was seated in an elbow-chair before her, nodding drowsily. At Mollie's exclamation she opened her eyes. "Where are we?" asked the young lady, still bewildered. "In Mr. Ingelow's studio," responded Mrs. Susan Sharpe. "Oh, Broadway! Then we are safe in New York?" The uproar in the great thoroughfare below answered her effectually. She rose up and walked to one of the windows. Life was all astir on the noisy pave. The crowds coming and going, the rattle and clatter were unspeakably delightful, after the dead stagnation of her brief imprisonment. "How did we come here?" asked Mollie, at length, turning round. "The last I remember I was dropping asleep in the buggy." "And you stayed asleep--sound--all the way," replied Mrs. Sharpe. "You slept like the dead. Mr. Ingelow lifted you out and carried you up here, and you never woke. I was asleep, too; but he made no ado about rousing me up. You were quite another matter." Mollie blushed. "How soundly I must have slept! What's the hour, I wonder?" "About half past eight." "Is that all? And where is Mr. Ingelow?" "Gone to get his breakfast and send us ours. Hadn't you better wash and comb your hair, Miss Dane? Here is the lavatory." Miss Dane refreshed herself by a cold ablution, and combed out her beautiful, shining tresses. As she flung them back, a quick, light step came flying upstairs, a clear voice sounded, whistling: "My Love is But a Lassie Yet." "That's Mr. Ingelow," said Susan Sharpe, decisively. The next instant came a light rap at the door. "The room is thine own," said Mollie, in French. "Come in." "Good-morning, ladies," Mr. Ingelow said, entering, handsome and radiant. "Miss Dane, I trust you feel refreshed after your journey?" "And my long sleep? Yes, sir." "And ready for breakfast?" "Quite ready." "That is well, for here it comes." As he spoke, a colored personage in a white apron entered, staggering under the weight of a great tray.