Nine o'clock struck. She sprang up, lighted her
candle, smoothed her hair, and prepared herself for her
last great trial — the drawing-room. On reaching the first
storey she saw in the distance, along the passage, a door
standing partly open, with brilliant light streaming
through ; and she heard the sound of a piano rising above
a hum of voices. That then, she thought, must be the
drawing-room. She went and knocked.
" Come in !" cried Mrs. Wolcombe's soft voice, which
Barbara never heard without a renewed sense of friendli-
ness near.
"0, it's nurse. Come, children,*' she continued, as
Barbara moved forwards into the confusing light, splen-
dour and publicity.
While the children rose, unwillingly, to begin the round
of good nights, the mill girl, who had never before put
foot in such a place, beg'an to ]:ai8e her eyes fi*om the



COPPESHALL. 65



carpet, as she perceived that no one seemed to be noticing
her, and to gaze on the novel scene. She felt strange
things astir besides simple admiration. This moss-like
carpet at her feet; these rich curtains looped back by
golden-tasselled cords, and revealing here a dazzliilgly
white statue, there baskets of exotic flowers, that realised
in cobur, form, and fragrance, under the soft, .warm light,
all that Barbara's imagination had ever suggested to her
of Paradise; those sumptuous damask coverings; these
airy, lace-like fabrics — whence came they ? They seemed
at once foreign and familiar. The intricate design of the
crimson damask, the leaf on the fairy muslin, the very
rosebuds on the carpet, were hardly strangers to her.
