"Well, little Doris!" exclaimed a fresh, wholesome voice, with a laughing sound back of it.
"Oh, you are Betty! It is like a dream. I could not think where I was at first. And this bed is so high. It's like Miss Arabella's with the curtains around it. And at home I had a little pallet—just a low, straight bed almost like a bench, with no curtains. You slept here with me?"
"Yes. It is my bed and my room. And it was delightful to have you last night. I think you never stirred. My niece Elizabeth was here in the summer from Salem, and after two nights I turned her out—she kicked unmercifully, and I couldn't endure it. Now, do you want to get up?"
"Oh, yes. Must I jump out or just slip."
"Here is a stool."
But Doris had slipped and come down on a rug of woven rags almost as soft as Persian pile. Her nightdress fell about her in a train; it was Betty's, and she looked like a slim white wraith.
"Now I will help you dress. Here is a gown of mine that I outgrew when I was a little girl, and it was so nice mother said it should be saved for Elizabeth. We call her that because my other sister Electa has a daughter she calls Bessy. They are both named after mother. And so am I, but I have always been called Betty. So many of one name are confusing. But yours is so pretty and odd. I never knew a girl called Doris."
"I am glad you like it," said Doris simply. "It was papa's choice. My mother's name was Jacqueline."
"That is very French."
"And that is my name, too. But Doris is easier to say."