She was partly roused by the various sounds in the house, but not startled—the light nights of summer always diminished her alarms; and she heard the clocks strike, and the bell ring for prayers, the doors open and shut, all mixed in with her hazy fancies. At last came the silken rustlings up the stairs again, and the openings of bed-room doors close to her.
Kate must have gone quite to sleep, for she did not know when the door was opened, and how the soft voices had come in that she heard over her.
“Poor little dear! How she has tossed her bed about! I wonder if we could set the clothes straight without wakening her.”
How very sweet and gentle Aunt Jane’s voice was in that low cautious whisper.
Some one—and Kate knew the peculiar sound of Mrs. Lacy’s crape—was moving the bed-clothes as gently as she could.
“Poor little dear!” again said Lady Jane; “it is very sad to see a child who has cried herself to sleep. I do wish we could manage her better. Do you think the child is happy?” she ended by asking in a wistful voice.
“She has very high spirits,” was the answer.
“Ah, yes! her impetuosity; it is her misfortune, poor child! Barbara is so calm and resolute, that—that—” Was Lady Jane really going to regret anything in her sister? She did not say it, however; but Kate heard her sigh, and add, “Ah, well! if I were stronger, perhaps we could make her happier; but I am so nervous. I must try not to look distressed when her spirits do break out, for perhaps it is only natural. And I am so sorry to have brought all this on her, and spoilt those poor children’s pleasure!”
Lady Jane bent over the child, and Kate reared herself up on a sudden, threw her arms round her neck, and whispered, “Aunt Jane, dear Aunt Jane, I’ll try never to frighten you again! I am so sorry.”
“There, there; have I waked you? Don’t, my dear; your aunt will hear. Go to sleep again. Yes, do.”