"Not yet a bit, I hope," answered the cook; "we'll get there soon
enough, anyhow--excep' you belong to them peculiars as wants to
be saints afore their time. If that's your sort, don't you come
here; for a wickeder 'ouse, or an 'ouse as you got to work harder
in o' Sundays, no one won't easily find in this here west end."
With these words she panted up the last few steps, immediately at
the top of which was the room sought. It was a very small one,
scarcely more than holding the two beds. Having lighted the gas,
the cook left her; and Mary, noting that one of the beds was not
made up, was glad to throw herself upon it. Covering herself with
her cloak, her traveling-rug, and the woolen counterpane, she was
soon fast asleep.
She was roused by a cry, half of terror, half of surprise. There
stood the second housemaid, who, having been told nothing of her
room-fellow, stared and gasped.
"I am sorry to have startled you," said Mary, who had half risen,
leaning on her elbow. "They ought to have told you there was a
stranger in your room."
The girl was not long from the country, and, in the midst of the
worst vulgarity in the world, namely, among the servants of the
selfish, her manners had not yet ceased to be simple. For a
moment, however, she seemed capable only of panting, and pressing
her hand on her heart.
"I am very sorry," said Mary, again; "but you see I won't hurt
you! I don't look dangerous, do I?"
"No, miss," answered the girl, with an hysterical laugh.
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