“What was the matter?” asked Mr. Openshaw, as his wife returned to bed. “Ailsie wakened up in a fright, with some story of a man having been in the room to say his prayers,—a dream, I suppose.” And no more was said at the time.
Mrs. Openshaw had almost forgotten the whole affair when she got up about seven o’clock. But, bye-and-bye, she heard a sharp altercation going on in the nursery. Norah speaking angrily to Ailsie, a most unusual thing. Both Mr. and Mrs. Openshaw listened in astonishment.
“Hold your tongue, Ailsie! let me hear none of your dreams; never let me hear you tell that story again!” Ailsie began to cry.
Mr. Openshaw opened the door of communication before his wife could say a word.
“Norah, come here!”
The nurse stood at the door, defiant. She perceived she had been heard, but she was desperate.
“Don’t let me hear you speak in that manner to Ailsie again,” he said sternly, and shut the door.
Norah was infinitely relieved; for she had dreaded some questioning; and a little blame for sharp speaking was what she could well bear, if cross-examination was let alone.
Down-stairs they went, Mr. Openshaw carrying Ailsie; the sturdy Edwin coming step by step, right foot foremost, always holding his mother’s hand. Each child was placed in a chair by the breakfast-table, and then Mr. and Mrs. Openshaw stood together at the window, awaiting their visitors’ appearance and making plans for the day. There was a pause. Suddenly Mr. Openshaw turned to Ailsie, and said:
“What a little goosy somebody is with her dreams, waking up poor, tired mother in the middle of the night with a story of a man being in the room.”