"May I go up to her?"
"Yes; but won't you have her come down?"
"No, I'd rather go up there, if you don't mind."
"Not at all. Dorian, you seem the only help we have."
He went through the living room to the stairway. He noticed that the bare boards of the stairs had been covered with a carpet, which made his ascending steps quite noiseless. Everything was still in Carlia's room. The door was slightly ajar, so he softly pushed it open. Carlia was lying on her bed asleep.
Dorian tiptoed in and stood looking about. The once bare, ugly room had been transformed into quite a pretty chamber, with carpet and curtains and wall-paper and some pretty furniture. The father had at last done a sensible thing for his daughter.
Carlia slept on peacefully. She had not even washed away the tear-stains from her cheeks, and her nut-brown hair lay in confusion about her head. Poor, dear girl! If there ever was a suffering penitent, here was one.
In a few moments, the girl stirred, then sensing that someone was in the room, she awoke with a start, and sprang to her feet.
"It's only Dorian," said he.
"Oh!" she put her hand to her head, brushing back her hair.