"Then, if you will follow me—" Miss Benedict led the way, through the dark halls and up three pairs of stairs. At the door of a room on the fourth floor she paused, knocked, and then entered. They followed, dimly perceiving a little form in the bed, for the shutters, of course, were closed. As they entered after Miss Benedict Cecily sprang to a sitting posture, with a cry of mingled wonder, consternation, and joy. She, too, glanced uncertainly at Miss Benedict.
"I have asked your friends to come and—and see you for a while," she explained hesitatingly to the bewildered child. "Perhaps it will make you—feel better." Then she turned abruptly and went out of the room, closing the door after her.
For a moment they stared at one another.
"Cecily!" cried Janet, at length, "what does this all mean, anyway?"
"I never dreamed of such a thing as seeing you—here!" faltered the invalid.
"What made her do it?" demanded Marcia. "We found a note from her tied to our string. How did she know about it?"
Cecily seemed to shrink back at this piece of news. "I told her, myself," she said. "I was very sick one night—I think I had a fever. My head was so hot and ached so. And she was—oh! so good to me! I could hardly believe it! She bathed my head, and sat by me, and put her cool hands on my forehead. It really seemed as if she—cared! And I felt so ashamed to think I'd—disobeyed her that I just told her right out all about it—how lonely I'd been, and how good you were to me, and how I'd enjoyed hearing from you."
"And what did she say?" breathed Marcia, in an awe-struck whisper.
"Not a word except, 'Never mind now, little girl!' And she never said a thing more about it. I didn't dream that she'd ever do such a thing as send for you to come and see me!"