Through an open door, at the end of this short gallery, the pleasant firelight gleamed, sufficiently indicating the room that had been prepared for her reception. She felt a little oddly and frightened, and the sight of old Dulcibella Crane in the cheerful light, busily unpacking her boxes, reassured her.
The grim old woman, Mildred Tarnley, stopped at the door.
“It’s very well aired, ma’am,” she said, making a little courtesy.
“It looks very comfortable; thank you—everything so neat; and such a bright nice fire,” said Alice, smiling on her as well as she could.
“There’s the tapestry room, and the leather room; but they’re not so dry as this, though it’s wainscot.”
“Oak, I think—isn’t it?” said the young lady, looking round.
“Yes, ma’am; and there’s the pink paper chamber and dressing room; but they’re gone very poor—and the bed and all that being in here, I thought ’twas the best o’ the lot; an’ there’s lots o’ presses and cupboards in the wall, and the keys in them, and the locks all right; and I do think it’s the most comfortablest room, my lady. That is the dressing-room in there, please; and do you like some more wood or coal on the fire, ma’am?”
“Not any; it is very nice—thanks.”
And Alice sat down before the fire, and the smile seemed to evaporate in its glow, and she looked very grave—and even anxious. Mildred Tarnley made her courtesy, looked round the room, and withdrew.
“Well, Dulcibella, when are you going to have your tea?” asked Alice, kindly.