You won’t mind sleeping in the garret, will you, Mary? It’s just above our room.”
“Any place’ll do me. Laws, I never had a decent place to sleep in my life. I slept in the loft over the kitchen at Mrs. Wiley’s. The roof leaked rain in the summer and the snow druv in in winter. My bed was a straw tick on the floor. You won’t find me a mite huffy about where I sleep.”
The manse garret was a long, low, shadowy place, with one gable end partitioned off. Here a bed was made up for Mary of the dainty hemstitched sheets and embroidered spread which Cecilia Meredith had once so proudly made for her spare-room, and which still survived Aunt Martha’s uncertain washings. The good nights were said and silence fell over the manse.