"You are very good to me."
"Am I better—to look at?"
Miss Ramsey shook her head gently.
"Dress makes a good deal of difference," she returned, presently.
Mariana rose and kissed her good-night.
"Sleep well," she said. "And don't make your bed in the morning—please don't. Yes, I am very sleepy."
But when the door had closed after Miss Ramsey she sat looking into the grate until the crimson coals had waned to livid ashes. The room grew cold and the shadows deepened in the folds of the curtains at the windows, which were stirred by a faint draught. From the street below an occasional noise rose, vague, unseizable—the roll of a wagon or the tramp of a passer-by upon the sidewalk. In a distant room a clock struck twice, with a soft whirring sound. From her gown, thrown across the back of a chair, the bruised violets diffused a fading sweetness. The embers waned one by one, and the visions in the fire grew spectral, like living faces which the warm blood forsakes. As the last one died she rose and went to bed.
When she awoke in the morning it was to find Miss Ramsey standing beside her, holding her breakfast-tray.
"You were sleeping very soundly," she said. "Did you have a good night?"
"Oh yes," Mariana responded. She yawned and turned upon the pillows, stretching her arms above her head. The lace on her sleeves fell away from her bare elbows.