Carlia was lying on her bed asleep.
Dorian tiptoed in and stood looking about.

The once bare, ugly room had been transformed into quite a pretty chamber, with carpet and curtains and wall-paper and some pretty furniture.

The father had at last done a sensible thing for his daughter.
Carlia slept on peacefully.

She had not even washed away the tear-stains from her cheeks, and her nut-brown hair lay in confusion about her head.
Poor, dear girl! If there ever was a suffering penitent, here was one.
In a few moments, the girl stirred, then sensing that someone was in the room, she awoke with a start, and sprang to her feet.
"It's only Dorian," said he.
"Oh!" she put her hand to her head, brushing back her hair.
"Dorian, is it you ?" "Sure, in real flesh and blood and rusty-red hair." He tried to force cheerfulness into his words.
"I'm so glad, so glad it's you." "And I'm glad that you're glad to see me." "Has he gone?
I'm afraid of him." "Afraid of whom, Carlia ?" "Don't you know?
Of course you don't know.

I--" "Sit down here, Carlia." He brought a chair; but she took it nearer the open window, and he pushed up the blind that the cool air might the more freely enter.