It was broad day when Mollie awoke, the sun shining brilliantly. She started up on her elbow, bewildered, and gazed around.
She was lying on a lounge in a strange room, and Mrs. Susan Sharpe was seated in an elbow-chair before her, nodding drowsily. At Mollie's exclamation she opened her eyes.
"Where are we?" asked the young lady, still bewildered.
"In Mr. Ingelow's studio," responded Mrs. Susan Sharpe.
"Oh, Broadway! Then we are safe in New York?"
The uproar in the great thoroughfare below answered her effectually. She rose up and walked to one of the windows. Life was all astir on the noisy pave. The crowds coming and going, the rattle and clatter were unspeakably delightful, after the dead stagnation of her brief imprisonment.
"How did we come here?" asked Mollie, at length, turning round. "The last I remember I was dropping asleep in the buggy."
"And you stayed asleep—sound—all the way," replied Mrs. Sharpe. "You slept like the dead. Mr. Ingelow lifted you out and carried you up here, and you never woke. I was asleep, too; but he made no ado about rousing me up. You were quite another matter."
Mollie blushed.
"How soundly I must have slept! What's the hour, I wonder?"