It was plain that Mary had a temper and was sensitive on some points.  But there was a queer, wild charm about her which captivated them all.  She was taken to Rainbow Valley that afternoon and introduced to the Blythes as “a friend of ours from over-harbour who is visiting us.”  The Blythes accepted her unquestioningly, perhaps because she was fairly respectable now.  After dinner—­through which Aunt Martha had mumbled and Mr. Meredith had been in a state of semi-unconsciousness while brooding his Sunday sermon—­Faith had prevailed on Mary to put on one of her dresses, as well as certain other articles of clothing.  With her hair neatly braided Mary passed muster tolerably well.  She was an acceptable playmate, for she knew several new and exciting games, and her conversation lacked not spice.  In fact, some of her expressions made Nan and Di look at her rather askance.  They were not quite sure what their mother would have thought of her, but they knew quite well what Susan would.  However, she was a visitor at the manse, so she must be all right.

When bedtime came there was the problem of where Mary should sleep.

“We can’t put her in the spare room, you know,” said Faith perplexedly to Una.

“I haven’t got anything in my head,” cried Mary in an injured tone.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” protested Faith.  “The spare room is all torn up.  The mice have gnawed a big hole in the feather tick and made a nest in it.  We never found it out till Aunt Martha put the Rev. Mr. Fisher from Charlottetown there to sleep last week.  He soon found it out.  Then father had to give him his bed and sleep on the study lounge.  Aunt Martha hasn’t had time to fix the spare room bed up yet, so she says; so nobody can sleep there, no matter how clean their heads are.  And our room is so small, and the bed so small you can’t sleep with us.”

“I can go back to the hay in the old barn for the night if you’ll lend me a quilt,” said Mary philosophically.  “It was kind of chilly last night, but ’cept for that I’ve had worse beds.”

“Oh, no, no, you mustn’t do that,” said Una.  “I’ve thought of a plan, Faith.  You know that little trestle bed in the garret room, with the old mattress on it, that the last minister left there?  Let’s take up the spare room bedclothes and make Mary a bed there.  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.  Una was just falling asleep when she heard a sound in the room just above that made her sit up suddenly.