One more peep had to be taken at the other room, where two snowy beds looked restful and inviting; then she locked the doors, leaving the key with Mrs. Smith that the fires might be made in the morning.
"I hope you will like it, Mamma," were her last words that night and her first thought next morning.
Mr. Hazeltine sent his carriage for Mrs. Warner, and short as the drive was it seemed tiresomely long to Dora.
"I am glad it is pleasant so that the sunshine will be in your windows; it is always there by eleven o'clock," she said.
Mrs. Smith was at the door to welcome them, with her small son Tommy to carry up any bundles.
"I declare," she remarked to her husband, "it doesn't look right for a woman that has a daughter like Miss Dora to be so terrible down-hearted."
In her eagerness to see how her mother was pleased, Dora hardly noticed anything herself when she opened the door.
A more hopelessly gloomy person than Mrs. Warner could not have failed to be impressed with the sweet, cheerful comfort which pervaded the room. The sunshine from the south windows lay in two great patches on the quiet carpet, and glistened in a corner of something that did not look quite familiar; the fire burned briskly, doing its best to add to the cheeriness.
"My dear daughter, how could you do all this?" she asked, her face brightening.
"Do you like it? I am so glad!" Then Dora began to look about in some bewilderment; something had certainly happened to the room since yesterday. In the corner by the fireplace was the dearest mahogany desk, and on it a card which read, "For a brave little girl, from Uncle William." Glancing up, her eyes rested on the sweet face of a Madonna, which she guessed at once came from Aunt Zélie.