“A cowardly villain!” cried Walter, delighted to let out some of his indignation. “I knew he was not speaking a word of truth.”
The children cheered up in a moment; but Lady Woodley was not sorry to make this agitating scene an excuse for retiring with all her children. Lucy and Eleanor were quite comforted, and convinced that Edmund must be safe; but poor little Charlie had been so dreadfully frightened by the horrors of Diggory’s description, that after Rose had put him to bed he kept on starting up in his sleep, half waking, and sobbing about brother Edmund’s brains.
Rose was obliged to go to him and soothe him. She longed to assure the poor little fellow that dear Edmund was perfectly safe, well, and near at hand; but the secret was too important to be trusted to one so young, so she could only coax and comfort him, and tell him they all thought it was not true, and Edmund would come back again.
“Sister,” said Charlie, “may I say my prayers again for him?”
“Yes, do, dear Charlie,” said Rose; “and say a prayer for King Charles too, that he may be safe from the wicked man.”
So little Charlie knelt by Rose, with his hands joined, and his little bare legs folded together, and said his prayer: and did not his sister’s heart go with him? Then she kissed him, covered him up warmly, and repeated to him in her soft voice the ninety-first Psalm: “Whoso dwelleth under the defence of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.”
By the time it was ended, the little boy was fast asleep, and the faithful loyal girl felt her failing heart cheered and strengthened for whatever might be before her, sure that she, her mother, her brother, and her King, were under the shadow of the Almighty wings.
CHAPTER IV.
In a very strong fit of restlessness did little Mistress Lucy Woodley go to bed in Rose’s room that night. She was quite comforted on Edmund’s account, for she had discernment enough to see that her mother and sister did not believe Diggory’s dreadful narration; and she had been so unsettled and excited by Mr. Sylvester Enderby’s notice, and by the way in which she had allowed her high spirits to get the better of her discretion, as well as by the sudden change from terror to joy, that when first she went to Rose’s room she could not attend to her prayers, and next she could not go to sleep.
Perhaps the being in a different apartment from usual, and the missing her accustomed sleeping companion, Eleanor, had something to do with it, for little Eleanor had a gravity and steadiness about her that was very apt to compose and quiet her in her idlest moods. To-night she lay broad awake, tumbling about on the very hard mattress, stuffed with chaff, wondering how Rose could bear to sleep on it, trying to guess how there could be room for both when her sister came to bed, and nevertheless in a great fidget for her to come. She listened to the howling and moaning of the wind, the creaking of the doors, and the rattling of the boards with which Rose had stopped up the broken panes of her lattice; she rolled from side to side, fancied odd shapes in the dark, and grew so restless and anxious for Rose’s coming that she was just ready to jump out of bed and go in the passage to call her when Rose came into the room.