“Very well, my Lady,” was the answer, in a tone just like that in which Lady Barbara said “Oh!”
And the door stayed open; but Kate could not sleep. There seemed to be the rattle and bump of the train going on in her bed; the gas-lights in the streets below came in unnaturally, and the noises were much more frightful and unaccountable than any she had ever heard at home. Her eyes spread with fright, instead of closing in sleep; then came the longing yearning for Sylvia, and tears grew hot in them; and by the time Mrs. Bartley had finished her preparations, and gone down, her distress had grown so unbearable, that she absolutely began sobbing aloud, and screaming, “Papa!” She knew he would be very angry, and that she should hear that such folly was shameful in a girl of her age; but any anger would be better than this dreadful loneliness. She screamed louder and louder; and she grew half frightened, half relieved, when she heard his step, and a buzz of voices on the stairs; and then there he was, standing by her, and saying gravely, “What is the matter, Kate?”
“O Papa, Papa, I want—I want Sylvia!—I am afraid!” Then she held her breath, and cowered under the clothes, ready for a scolding; but it was not his angry voice. “Poor child!” he said quietly and sadly. “You must put away this childishness, my dear. You know that you are not really alone, even in a strange place.”
“No, no, Papa; but I am afraid—I cannot bear it!”
“Have you said the verse that helps you to bear it, Katie?”
“I could not say it without Sylvia.”
She heard him sigh; and then he said, “You must try another night, my Katie, and think of Sylvia saying it at home in her own room. You will meet her prayers in that way. Now let me hear you say it.”
Kate repeated, but half choked with sobs, “I lay me down in peace,” and the rest of the calm words, with which she had been taught to lay herself in bed; but at the end she cried, “O Papa, don’t go!”
“I must go, my dear: I cannot stay away from your aunts. But I will tell you what to do to-night, and other nights when I shall be away: say to yourself the ninety-first Psalm. I think you know it—‘Whoso abideth under the defence of the Most High—’”
“I think I do know it.”