Mr. Blyth's two servants slept up-stairs. About ten minutes after their
master had ascended to his bed-room, they left the kitchen for their
dormitory on the garret floor. Patty, the housemaid, stopped as she
passed the painting room, to look in, and see that the lights were out,
and the fire safe for the night. Polly, the cook, went on with the
bedroom candle; and, after having ascended the stairs as far as the
first landing from the hall, discreetly bethought herself of the garden
door, the general care and superintendence of which was properly
attached to her department in the household.
"I say, did you lock the garden door?" said Polly to Patty through the
banisters.
"Yes; I did it when I took up master's tea," said Patty to Polly,
appearing lazily in the hall, after one sleepy look round the
fast-darkening studio.
"Hadn't you better see to it again, to make sure?" suggested the
cautious cook.
"Hadn't _you?_ It's _your_ place," retorted the careless house-maid.
"Hush!" whispered Valentine, suddenly appearing on the landing above
Polly, from his bedroom, arrayed in his flannel dressing-gown and
nightcap. "Don't talk here, or you'll disturb your mistress. Go up to
bed, and talk there.
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