She turned from the glass with a long, weary sigh, took off her dusty dress, shook out her abundant tresses, donned a wrapper, crept into the bed that had been pointed out as hers, and when Patsy came up an hour later to tidy the room, was sunk in a slumber so profound that she knew of neither the coming nor going of the child.
She was roused at last by a slight shake and the voice of the little maid.
“Miss, miss, they’re a-settin’ down to the table; don’t ye want some dinner? Miss Hetty she told me to ax ye.”
“Thank you!” cried Floy, starting up. “Yes, I’ll be down in a moment; I’d no thought of sleeping so long!”
It was the work of a very few minutes to gather up her hair into a massive coil at the back of her head and put on one of her simply-made but becoming mourning dresses.
She entered the dining-room with a quaking heart, not knowing what severe looks or reproaches might be meted out to her unpunctuality.
Patsy’s report had been, however, not quite correct, and she was but a moment behind the others.
They were the same party she had met at breakfast, with the addition of a middle-aged, cadaverous-visaged man with a perpetual frown on his brow and a fretful expression about the mouth, who, as she entered, was in the act of carving a leg of mutton. He honored our heroine with a stare which she felt like resenting.
“Miss Kemper, Uncle Thorne,” said Hetty.
“Ah, how d’ye do, miss? Will you be helped to a bit of a poor man?”