into that room down there, and I'm uglier than I thought!"
Of course Reba was being cruel to herself, harsh and unjust, but there lay buried in her the instincts of generation upon generation of New England ancestors, and on this night of her disillusionment they rose up and cried out in protesting chorus.
It was not until the sky began to show the faint gray light of dawn, and the noise in the bar-room had stopped, that Reba fell asleep for an hour or so, her head resting against the window-casing, and her hands limp and tired lying upturned in her lap.
The sun was shining strong and clear, and beautifully undisturbed by soiled linen, upon the pillows of the bed, when Reba woke up. She drew in a deep sigh of relief at the assurance that the night was over. For a moment or two, as she gazed at one stray sunbeam lying in her lap in such a casual fashion, it seemed to her as if the last twenty-four hours must have been a nightmare, and in a moment the cracked mirror and tipsy-looking set of drawers would fade away and in their place appear the familiar chiffonier in her room at the Alliance.
She moved her hands, but the cracked mirror didn't disappear. She rubbed her eyes,—it was all true. Even her hair was proof of that. It had slipped down, and lay in a loose untidy roll upon her shoulder. Reba looked at her watch. Eight o'clock! So late? Time for breakfast! Swiftly her thoughts shot forward over the miles, to the pleasant sunlit dining-room at the Alliance, filled at this instant with the fragrance of coffee, and the pleasant chatter of several dozen girls.
