"Loveday Corbet, reverend mother—I mean madam," I replied, confused at my mistake.
"Yes, yes, I remember," said Mistress Davis. "Philippa, will you show Mistress Loveday her room; and when you are ready, sweet chick, come down to the dining-room; I dare say you know the way."
"Yes, madam," I answered. "If you will kindly tell me which room I am to have, I will find it without troubling Mrs. Philippa."
"Oh, I am sure it is no trouble. The front room on the third floor—that hung with the apostles, if you remember."
"Oh yes, madam, it is my old room."
"Let me carry your bundle," said she whom Mistress Davis had called Philippa, coming forward and taking it from my hand. We passed up the familiar stair—so familiar, yet so strange—and entered the very room from which I had witnessed Sambo's recovery of the stolen flowers. It was hardly altered at all, save that the floor was strewn with rushes, a practice which my uncle had discarded. The very nosegay of flowers on the mantle might have been the same, only that they were spring, instead of autumn, posies. A pretty gown and petticoat of dark blue, with a linen hood, and other things belonging to a young lady's dress, were neatly laid out on the bed.
"My aunt hath provided you with a complete change of raiment, you see!" said Mrs. Philippa, with a kind of bitterness in her tone which I did not then understand.
"She is very kind, indeed, to think of it," said I, and, indeed, I did feel it to be a motherly and kind act, which made my heart warm toward the good woman.
"Oh, very!" answered Philippa, in the same odd tone. "I will leave you to dress and then, perhaps, you can find your way down by yourself, as you know the house so well."
"Certainly," I answered, feeling a little confused and vexed, as well by something in her manner and the sharp scrutiny of her cold gray eyes.