I have a balm ye ne’er can know—
A hopeful mind.”—F. Vane.
Up three flights of stairs the trunk was carried, Floy following close behind, laden with satchel, hat, and shawl.
“There!” cried Hetty pantingly, setting it down in the corner and straightening herself with her hands upon her hips, “I feel relieved; I’ve had my own way, and that’s something I always enjoy,” and she wound up with a cheery little laugh.
All Floy’s protestations had been good-naturedly overruled, Hetty declaring herself a sort of female Samson, and the trunk very small and light.
“You are very kind,” said Floy, “but you should have let me hire some one.”
“No, no! no telling how long we’d have been kept waiting, or how many customers would have stumbled over or against it, or caught their dresses on it in the mean time. Whew! how close this room is! The girls rush down without waiting to open a window,” hastily throwing up one as she spoke. “I’m sorry I’ve no better or lower accommodations to offer you, Miss Kemper,” she went on laughingly. “It’s a shame to make you climb so many stairs, but one of the things that can’t be helped. That’s your bed in the corner there,” pointing to a single bed which seemed not to have been occupied. “Do lie down and rest a little; sleep if you can. I must run right away,” and she flew downstairs.
Floy glanced about her. A great bare attic room, an old carpet, faded and worn, covering the middle of the floor; furniture scanty—just an old bureau, three chairs, all much hacked and scratched with long, hard usage; several unmade beds, each of which had evidently been occupied by two persons through the past night; and her own little one, which looked neat and inviting with its coarse but clean sheets and cheap white counterpane.
Everything indeed was clean, yet the room was disorderly and without a suggestion of comfort or prettiness in its appointments.
What a contrast to her own cosey, tasteful room in the old home!