The room to which her companion led her was the very picture of comfort. It was not too large, furnished with plain, old- fashioned furniture, and lighted and warmed by a cheerful wood-fire. The very old brass-headed hand-irons that stretched themselves out upon the hearth with such a look of being at home, seemed to say, "You have come to the right place for comfort." A little, dark, mahogany book-case in one place — an odd toilet-table of the same stuff in another; and opposite the fire an old-fashioned high-post bedstead, with its handsome Marseilles quilt and ample pillows, looked very tempting. Between this and the far side of the room, in the corner, another bed was spread on the floor. "This is aunt Sophia's room," said little Ellen Chauncey; — "this is where you are to sleep." "And where will Alice be?" said the other Ellen. "Oh, she'll sleep here, in this bed, with aunt Sophia; that is because the house is so full, you know; — and here is your bed, here on the floor. Oh, delicious! I wish I was going to sleep here! Don't you love to sleep on the floor? I do. I think it's fun." Anybody might have thought it fun to sleep on that bed, for, instead of a bedstead, it was luxuriously piled on mattresses. The two children sat down together on the foot of it. "This is aunt Sophia's room," continued little Ellen, "and next to it, out of that door, is our dressing-room, and next to that is where Mamma and I sleep. Do you undress and dress yourself?" "To be sure I do," said Ellen — "always." "So do I; but Marianne Gillespie won't even put on her shoes and stockings for herself." "Who does it, then?" said Ellen. "Why, Lester — aunt Matilda's maid. Mamma sent away her maid when we came here, and she says if she had fifty she would like me to do everything I can for myself. I shouldn't think it was pleasant to have any one put on one's shoes and stockings for you, should you?" "No, indeed," said Ellen. "Then you live here all the time?" "Oh, yes — ever since papa didn't come back from that long voyage — we live here since then." "Is he coming back soon?" "No," said little Ellen, gravely — "he never will came back — he never will come back any more." Ellen was sorry she had asked, and both children were silent for a minute. "I'll tell you what," said little Ellen, jumping up — "Mamma said we mustn't sit up too long talking, so I'll run and get my things and bring 'em here, and we can undress together; won't that be a nice way?" CHAPTER XXVIII. Scraps of Morocco and talk. Left alone in the strange room with the flickering fire, how quickly Ellen's thoughts left Ventnor and flew over the sea! They often travelled that road, it is true, but now perhaps the very home-look of everything, where yet _she_ was not at home, might have sent them. There was a bitter twinge or two, and for a minute Ellen's head drooped. "To-morrow will be Christmas-eve — _last_ Christmas-eve — oh, Mamma!"