"Sophy," I said, "are you ill?"
She jumped up and took the hand I held out to her, but did not answer. Her face was very white, and there was a look of fear in her eyes.
"Good God!" I cried, with a pang. "Have they been ill-treating her? What's the matter with you, Sophy?"
"Not afore 'im," she said. Her throat seemed to be parched, her voice was so choked.
"No, they have not ill-treated her," said Bob; "I can answer for that. When she came with the desk----"
"You've got the desk!" I cried. Notwithstanding my anxiety for Sophy the news excited me, and my attention was diverted from her for a moment.
"Yes," said Bob, with a laugh in which I detected a shade of bitterness, "we've got the desk. For all the good it's worth. When she hopped into my room with it she was as bright as a cricket. Later on sent her to bed. Supposed her to be asleep, when she tumbled into the room again with a face like--well, look at it. Thought she'd have a fit. She'd had a nightmare."
"I hadn't," gasped Sophy.
"I'll take your word for it," said Bob. "Anyway, she wouldn't open her lips to me. Very mysterious. She will to you, most likely."
"Yes, I will," said Sophy, still clinging to me; she was trembling all over.