“‘In the large bush of box-wood,’ she muttered, as I leaned down to hear. ‘I meant to tell—but—’ here she moaned and seemed distressed, her brow contracted into a frown, and then a look of pain crossed her face. ‘Mary was in such a hurry,’ she said. She was quiet a moment, and then began again: ‘you might scold—I did think at first—oh—’
“In her sleep she was thinking of it—that wrong at which I had guessed, and which, at one word from me, she would have confessed at first. I had not given her credit for conscientiousness. I thought she had forgotten the whole thing. Here was another growth in my harvest of the day’s wrong doing. Oh, what was I to do?
“‘Cora, Cora, wake up. Tell me, what was it? What is it? Let us go down to Aunt Marion.’
“I shook her in my fright, but she only turned and muttered, and would not wake. I lay down in sore distress—I could only wait in patience, I durst not go down stairs. Presently, sight and sound and troubled thought faded away, and I was asleep before I knew that I was growing sleepy.
“I had been dreaming uneasily, and woke with a start of fright. A great weight was upon me—the events of the day, the sin and pain and weariness flashed upon me and were almost too grievous to be borne.
“I could not tell what time it was—but the feeling that I must tell all to aunt Marion was strong upon me. I heard no sound in the house—perhaps they had all retired—my natural timidity made me tremble at the thought of the stillness of the house. The moon was shining brightly—its rays were streaming in at my window, and shadows lay silently on the wall and about the floor.
“Cora was asleep still. I could not bear it. I thought I should go down the hall and listen at aunt Marion’s door, hoping to find her awake, that I might tell her. I listened a moment, holding my breath. It seemed so lonely that I feared to rise; there was a sound like the clicking of a key in the lock, then a stirring, murmuring sound, as if a breeze were passing. I lifted my head, noiselessly, but my heart fluttered with fear, a faintness came over me, terror kept me still, I could not have screamed if I had tried.
“At the foot of my bed was a door opening into a room which was never used, and very seldom entered. There was a sort of closeness and dreariness about it even in the day time—and none of us cared to open the door. Now and then, I had stolen in, on tip-toe, to look at some cast-off pictures on the wall, or to hide with my book from Cora’s teasing; but such a proceeding was of rare occurrence and only took place on sunshiny days.
“I was always particularly careful to lock the door upon retiring, and had with my own hand turned the key before getting into bed that evening. Now the door stood wide open—there was a blank, black space in the white wall. I stared with eyes wide open in horror, but in a moment fell back faint with the relief. It was the foot of our French bedstead. The dark mahogany, being between me and the door, gave it the appearance of being open.
“Trembling and chilled with the fright, in my nervous, feverish state, ready to start at every sound, every shadow, I rose, and stepping timidly, felt my way along the hall, carefully, quietly, praying God to keep me. I reached the head of the steps and looked down into the black, empty hall below. There was no sound, but from the library door a little stream of light wandered and wavered over the carpet.