“Just like a desert island,” whispered Maurice.
“Only savages don’t have doughnuts and milk,” returned Edie, helping herself liberally.
The fire leaped higher and glowed more and more ardently in its efforts to warm the castaways, until they were glad to draw back their chairs from the hearth,—all except the little governess, who was still chilled through and through, although she meekly drank three cups of hot tea in succession, and crouched as near the friendly fire as she could without scorching the pretty dark-blue traveling dress. Little ripples of shiver seemed to run over her from head to foot, like a cold breeze.
“I think, if you please, I’ll go to my room,” she said at last, with a grateful look at ’Lisbeth, who was watching her anxiously, and who doubtless supposed her to be a relative, probably the children’s aunt. “Governess” was an idea that had not struck Haybrook, except through the medium of an old English novel or two.
“Well, just step right in here,” she said, sympathetically; “and don’t you get up till ye’re called in the mornin’.”
As she spoke she opened one of the little, gray, uneven doors behind her guests, and lighting a tallow candle in a knobby brass candlestick, placed it upon some article of furniture within.
“Good-night,” she said again, kindly. “Don’t let me disturb ye by my travelin’ round the kitchen gettin’ breakfast. You can leave the door open a crack for company, if you’re lonesome.”