There was a tender apology in Elsa’s voice when she spoke again: “Grandmother didn’t know about Bettina. She doesn’t know how lonesome I am.”
Then Elsa turned and looked eagerly into Miss Ruth’s face: “Is your room over the library?”
“Yes, right over this room.”
Elsa slipped off from Miss Ruth’s lap to the arm of the chair: “I—I think I could go back now and go to sleep—without Bettina—if you would just leave one curtain up a little wee bit so as I could know you—you thought about me—once in awhile,” she said slowly. “I—I shouldn’t feel so lonely then,—’cause from where my bed is I can look right out to the window where there is a tall green vase—I thought maybe it was your room.”
“I will leave that curtain up a little way every night, Elsa, and I will put a rose in that vase to-night, especially for you, so that you can see the shadow on the curtain,” said Miss Ruth, rising.
“O, will you?” The silvery voice was eloquent with gratitude. As Elsa raised her head she suddenly felt very tired and sleepy. Indeed, the child was almost worn out.
“Now, Elsa, I am going to bring you a glass of milk and then go home with you,” said Miss Ruth. “Just think how alarmed your grandmother would be if she should miss you.”
“O, I know she hasn’t missed me,” exclaimed Elsa. “She never thinks about me, I am sure, after I go to bed.” And Miss Ruth left the child sitting up with shining eyes and a bright red spot on each cheek.
Elsa was drinking the milk just as the clock struck ten. Quite as if her grandmother had told her to come home at exactly ten o’clock, she slipped down from the chair, pulled the great fur cape over her shoulders, and waited in the hall, a brave little figure with a flushed face, while Miss Ruth put on her red golf cape.
Miss Ruth fastened the long fur cape securely around Elsa,—for the night air was chilling cold,—opened the front door, and, before the child realized it, took her up, a soft, furry bundle and a heavy one,—and ran with her across the strip of lawn. The door of the Danforth house was ajar.