The thunder rolled, but it was far away, like a noise in dreams, and presently it was only in dreams, for Caroline, that the thunder rolled. When she opened her eyes again, there was no light in the room, except the pale light that came from the rain-washed out-of-doors. Against the night Cousin Penelope’s form was outlined, as she finished putting up the blinds and opening the windows. Then she came softly across the room, in the fresh, sweet air and bent and drew the coverlet over Caroline’s shoulders.
“Good-night, Cousin Penelope,” Caroline whispered sleepily. “Go back to bed now—or you’ll take cold.”
In the darkness Cousin Penelope bent suddenly, and the faint scent of violets came with her. She kissed Caroline’s forehead, and Caroline put up her arms, and caught her round the neck, and kissed her cheek.
“You’re so good, Cousin Penelope,” she whispered. “I’m so glad you like me.”
For a moment Cousin Penelope held her close.
“Of course I—like you, Jacqueline.”
The naming of the name that was not hers made Caroline shrink in the arms that held her.
“I want you to like me always!” she cried from her very heart.
“Silly little girl!” Cousin Penelope whispered tenderly—think of Cousin Penelope being tender!—and kissed her again. Then she tucked her in snugly, and bade her sleep, for the storm was over, and went away.
But Caroline lay wide awake, until the rain had dwindled to the mere dribble of water from the roof, and when she slept at last, her dreams were troubled.