“Dear Jesus,” she prayed, “please forgive me for deceiving my dear father and mother. If you'll forgive me just this once, I promise never, never to deceive them again.”
Then, feeling better—prayer, when there is real faith, does lift a load amazingly—she climbed back into bed, with the furs on her pillow.
But she could not sleep. That was natural—so much had happened, and everything seemed so complicated. Everything had been seeming to go against her and here, all of a sudden, everything had turned out her way. She had her white fox furs, much prettier than Genevieve Hicks's—oh, she DID hope they'd let her go to church next Sunday night so she could wear them! And she'd had a serious little talk with Arthur—the way seemed paved for her to exert a really satisfactory influence over him. As soon as she could see him again—Oh, she wished she might wear the furs to the Library to-morrow night! She wished Arthur could see her in them—
A sudden thought brought her up sharp: she couldn't meet him to-morrow night after all—for she never wanted to deceive dear father again. No, she would never sneak off like that any more. Yet it wouldn't be fair to Arthur to let him go there and wait in vain. She ought to let him know, some way. And she ought to let him know, too, that that man wasn't father, after all. What if he was worrying, this minute, thinking she might have been caught and punished. It didn't seem right, while SHE was so happy, to leave poor Arthur worrying like that... Oh, she DID wish he could see her in the furs... Yes, she OUGHT to tell him she couldn't keep the “date”—it would be awful for him to sit there in the Library, waiting and waiting...
She kept up her disturbed ponderings until the house grew dark and still. Then, very quietly, she crept out of bed and dressed herself in the dark. She put on her cloak and hat. After a second's hesitation she added the white fox furs. Then, holding her breath, she stole down the back stairs and out the kitchen door.
The night seemed more fearsomely spectral than ever—it must be terribly late; but she sped through the white silence resolutely. She was glad Arthur's boarding-house was only two blocks away. She knew which was his window; she stood beneath it and softly gave “the crowd's” whistle. Waited—whistled again. There was his window going up at last. And Arthur's tousled head peering out.
“I just wanted to let you know I can't come to the Library after all, Arthur! No!—Don't say anything, now!—I'll explain all about it when I get a chance. And that wasn't father—it turned out all right. No, no!—Don't say anything now! Maybe I'll be in the kitchen to-morrow. Good night!”
Then, while Arthur stared after her amazedly, she turned and scurried like a scared rabbit through the white silence.
As she ran she was wondering whether Arthur had got a really good view of the furs in the moonlight; was resolving to urge him to go to church next Sunday night even if SHE couldn't; was telling herself she mustn't ENTIRELY relinquish her hold on him-for his sake...
So full were her thoughts that she forgot to be much afraid. And the Lord must have been with her, for she reached the kitchen door in safety and regained her own room without detection. In bed once again, a great, soft, holy peace seemed to enfold her. Everything was right with everybody—with father and mother and God and Arthur—everybody.