I had the key of a side-door in my pocket, for we had thought it wise to give ourselves command of this door, and so we let ourselves in without ringing or waking Pomona.
All was quiet within, and we went upstairs with the lantern. Everything seemed clean and in order, and it is impossible to convey any idea of the element of comfort which seemed to pervade the house, as we quietly made our way upstairs in our wet boots and heavy, damp clothes.
The articles we wanted were in a closet, and while I was making a bundle of them, Euphemia went to look for Pomona. She soon returned, walking softly.
"She's sound asleep," said she, "and I didn't think there was any need of waking her. We'll send word by John that we've been here. And oh! you can't imagine how snug and happy she did look, lying there in her comfortable bed, in that nice, airy room. I'll tell you what it is: if it wasn't for the neighbours, and especially the Atkinsons, I wouldn't go back one step."
"Well," said I, "I don't know that I care so particularly about it myself; but I suppose I couldn't stay here and leave all Thompson's things out there to take care of themselves."
"Oh, no!" said Euphemia. "And we're not going to back down. Are you ready?"
On our way downstairs we had to pass the partly open door of our own room. I could not help holding up the lantern to look in. There was the bed, with its fair, white covering and its smooth, soft pillows; there were the easy-chairs, the pretty curtains, the neat and cheerful carpet, the bureau, with Euphemia's work-basket on it; there was the little table with the book that we had been reading together, turned face
111
