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He contrasted her wretched bed on that cabin floor with her home bedchamber which he figured—he had never entered it; a room sweet-scented with the flowers of the creepers at the windows, white and fair in the apparel of a girl's bower of rest, elegant in its equipment as were all the rooms of the home of the Actons. "It's under the stove. See it?" "Up to the mouth. There's green bass up there an' lots of small frogs, if we need 'em, fer bait." "What is to be done? What is to be done?" cried Miss Acton..