“Well, then, honey, we’ll have it up there. Up there, landlord, if it won’t be putting of you to too much trouble.”
“Oh, not at all, farmer; it’s all one to me. Now I’ll go and call Rachel.”
And the inquisitive and communicative host went out, and soon returned with a young woman of about Sybil’s own age.
“This is my daughter, my Rachel, as I was telling you about, farmer. Rachel, honey, you just go long of the farmer and his daughter and show them where they’ve got to sleep, that’s a good girl. Put ’em in the two little rooms over the bar, you know.”
“Yes, father. Come, sir; come, miss,” said the landlord’s daughter, leading the way from the smoky parlor.
Lyon and Sybil followed her. Lyon walking slowly like a weary old man, and pausing at the head of the stairs, as if to recover his wind.
“Pappy, you look tired to death,” said Sybil, in a rough sympathetic voice.
“Ay, ay; it is weary work for an old man to get up-stairs,” grunted Lyon.
“The stairs are very steep, but here you are,” said the landlord’s daughter, opening the door leading into two little communicating rooms.
She entered, followed by Sybil and Lyon. She set the candle down on the top of the old chest of drawers, and turned around. And then the travellers noticed, for the first time, how beautiful the daughter of their host was.