the uncouth savage voice was raised high again, and quelled by the
parson's calm tone. Then there was a great settling of a heavy body
close to the threshold. The black woman had thrown herself at the
sill of her darling's door, to keep watch, like a faithful dog.

Madelon Hautville, when she entered Dorothy Fair's room, had her mind
not been fixed upon its one end, which was above all such petty
details of existence, might well have looked about her. No such
dainty maiden bower was there in the whole village as this. Madelon's
own chamber, carpetless and freezing cold, with its sparse furniture
and scanty sweep of white curtains across the furred windows which
filled the room with the blue-white light of frost, was desolation to
it.

A great fire blazed on Dorothy Fair's chamber hearth. The red glow of
it was over the whole room, and the frost on the windows was melting.
Curtains of a soft blue-and-white stuff, said to have been brought
from overseas, hung at Dorothy's windows and between the high posts
of her bed. She had also her little rocking-chair and footstool
frilled and cushioned with it. There was a fine white matting on her
floor, and a thick rug with a basket of flowers wrought on it beside
her bed. The high white panel-work around Dorothy's mantel was carved
with curving garlands and festoons of ribbon and flowers, and on the
shelf stood tall china vases and bright candlesticks. Dorothy's
dressing-table had a petticoat of finest dimity, trimmed with tiny
tassels. Above it hung her fine oval mirror, in a carved gilt frame.
Upon the table were scattered silver and ivory things and glass
bottles, the like of which Madelon had never seen. The room was full
of that mingled perfume of roses and lavender which was always about
Dorothy herself.