“Then I shall have a bed to sleep in!” said Floy, joyfully. “It is some time since I slept on any thing softer than a board, or perhaps a rug.”
Martin was about to leave her alone, when he chanced to think the room would be dark.
“You can undress in the dark, can’t you?” he inquired. “I haven’t got but one light. I can’t afford to keep more.”
“Oh! I sha’n’t take off my clothes at all,” said the young girl. “I never do.”
She got into bed, spread the quilt over her, and was asleep in less than five minutes.
Martin Kendrick went back to his room. He did not immediately retire to bed, but sat for a few minutes, pondering on the extraordinary chance—for in his case it was certainly extraordinary—which had thrown a young girl, as it were, under his protection, though but for a limited time. He was somewhat bewildered, so unexpectedly had the event happened, and could scarcely, even now, realize that it was so.
But the warning sound of a neighboring church-clock, as it proclaimed midnight, interrupted the train of his reflections, and he prepared for bed; not neglecting, so strongly was the feeling of suspicion implanted in him, to secure the door by means of a bolt. When he awoke, the sun was shining through the window of his room. He had hardly dressed himself, when a faint knock was heard at the door of his room. Opening it a little ways, he saw Floy standing before him.
“What! you here now?” he inquired.
“Yes. Where should I go? Besides, I did not want to unlock the front door without your permission.”