“You needn’t worry about anything, Sister. Just get to bed and have a good rest.”
Yet when about an hour later she came up the slope to the cottage, she saw by the faint red and purple gleams shining from one of the windows that Sister was still in the Oratory. She felt vexed to think that the old soul was at her prayers instead of being in bed, but knew better than to disturb her; and being very tired herself was not long getting into bed. She went to sleep thinking happily of the coming week of holidays to be spent with her family at Bloemhof. There were only two more days of school, and then on Saturday morning she was to leave by a carrier’s cart and would reach her home by Saturday afternoon.
During the night, she was much disturbed by the howling of her dog Fingo who was fastened in the yard. She had been allowed to bring Fingo from Bloemhof, and he had always slept in the kitchen, and been allowed the run of the house, but that very afternoon Sister had accused him of rooting in the garden, and insisted on his being kept tied up in future. Whether it was the curtailing of his freedom that desolated Fingo, it is hard to say, but certainly Mary had never before heard him make such tragic and doleful sounds. He at last left off, and she got to sleep, but it seemed only a moment later that she was awakened by a loud thumping on the front door, and sleepily putting out her hand for the matches, she suddenly realised that the light of early dawn was already in the room. Jumping out of bed, she threw a cloak over her night-dress and went to open the door. As she passed through the dining-room, she heard Sister also hurrying out of bed.
“Someone must be ill, Mary,” she called through her door, and as if in answer came another loud knocking and a voice crying in bitter trouble.
“Sister Joanna—Oh! Sister Joanna!”
“What, my poor thing? What?” called back the old woman, and came floundering half-dressed from her room as Mary opened the door.
A coloured woman was standing there, haggard and dishevelled, her hair hanging in streaks about her wild face, fear in her bloodshot eyes. Her clothes were rumpled as though they had been slept in, and she was panting and covered with dust. A picture of misery!
“Is my little Rosalie here?” she gasped, and with the question came a sickening odour of stale brandy. It was then they recognised her for Rosalie Paton’s mother.
“Here! Why, of course not, Mrs Paton,” cried Mary.
“What do you mean?” said Sister in astonishment.