"There!" she said; "you've seen it all." She stood there in a kind of impassioned splendor, her jewelled fingers shut tightly and her fists thrown out and apart so as to show the veins and cords of her wrists. "_We_ did it, we two--just Granger and I. Nothing but our own hands and hearts and hopes, and each other. We have fought the fight--a fair field and no favor--and we have come out ahead. And we shall stay there, too; keep up with the procession is my motto, and head it if you can. I _do_ head it, and I feel that I'm where I belong. When I can't foot it with the rest, let me drop by the wayside and the crows have me. But they'll never get me--never! There's ten more good years in me yet; and if we were to slip to the bottom to-morrow, we should work back to the top again before we finished. When I led the grand march at the Charity Ball I was accused of taking a vainglorious part in a vainglorious show. Well, who would look better in such a rôle than I, or who has earned a better right to play it? There, child! ain't that success? ain't that glory? ain't that poetry?--H'm," she broke off suddenly, "I'm glad Jimmy wasn't by to hear that! He's always taking up his poor mother." "Jimmy? Is he humble-minded--do you mean?" "Humble-minded? One of my boys humble-minded? No, indeed; he's grammatical, that's all; he prefers 'isn't.' Come up." Mrs. Bates hurried her guest over the stairway and through several halls and passages, and introduced her finally into a large and spacious room done in white and gold. In the glittering electrolier wires mingled with pipes and bulbs with globes. To one side stood a massive brass bedstead full panoplied in coverlet and pillow-cases, and the mirror of the dressing-case reflected a formal row of silver-backed brushes and combs. "My bedroom," said Mrs. Bates. "How does it strike you?" "Why," stammered Jane, "It's all very fine, but--" "Oh yes; I know what they say about it--I've heard them a dozen times. 'It's very big and handsome and all, but not a bit home-like. _I_ shouldn't want to sleep here.' Is that the idea?" "About," said Jane. "Sleep here!" echoed Mrs. Bates. "I _don't_ sleep here. I'd as soon think of sleeping out on the prairie. That bed isn't to _sleep_ in; it's for the women to lay their hats and cloaks on. Lay yours there now." Jane obeyed. She worked herself out of her old blue sack, and disposed it, neatly folded, on the brocaded coverlet. Then she took off her mussy little turban and placed it on the sack. "What a strange woman," she murmured to herself. "She doesn't get any music out of her piano; she doesn't get any reading out of her books; she doesn't even get any sleep out of her bed." Jane smoothed down her hair and awaited the next stage of her adventure.