Her question was a real relief to the mind of Bruce, as it convinced him that Emmie’s misery arose merely from some fanciful terrors in regard to the bricked-up apartment.
“Yes,” he answered gaily, “and a gun besides, to say nothing of poker and tongs, pen-knife, and razors. If any unpleasant guests were to make their appearance, they should find me quite ready to meet them.”
Emmie was crying no longer, but she looked pale and anxious as ever; something seemed to be on her tongue struggling for utterance,—something which she was afraid or unable to speak.
“It is time for me to be off,” said Bruce, gently releasing his arm from the clasp of his sister.
“Bruce, stay. Tell me if you would again change rooms with me,” cried Emmie, with a convulsive effort.
“I am very sorry that you do not like your new apartment,” said Bruce, slightly knitting his brows.
“I do like it,—it is only too good for me,” faltered poor Emmie.
“Then why quit it?” asked Bruce, with a little impatience.
“I thought that if you would not mind changing—” Again Emmie stopped abruptly, without concluding her sentence.
“Of course I will change rooms with you if you really wish it,” said Bruce, willing to humour his sister, but making mental reflections on the fickleness and unreasonableness of the fair sex, of which Emmie was the only representative with whom he was well acquainted.