And the twins went to bed, and fell asleep after a while, never doubting that Connie, in her corner of the room, was already safe and happy in the oblivion of slumber.
But poor Connie! She had not wakened when Fairy closed the dungeon door. It was long afterward when she sat up and began rubbing her eyes. She did not know where she was. Then she remembered! She wondered if Prudence— She scrambled to her feet, and trotted over to the dungeon door. It was locked, she could not turn the knob. At first, she thought of screaming and pounding on the door.
"But that will arouse Prudence, and frighten her, and maybe kill her," she thought wretchedly. "I'll just keep still until some one passes."
But no one passed for a long time, and Connie stretched her aching little body and sobbed, worrying about Prudence, fearful on her own account. She had no idea of the time. She supposed it was still early. And the parsonage was deathly quiet. Maybe Prudence had died! Connie writhed in agony on the hard floor, and sobbed bitterly. Still she would not risk pounding on the dungeon door.
Up-stairs, in the front room, Prudence was at that time wrestling with fever. Higher and higher it rose, until the doctors looked very anxious. They held a brief consultation in the corner of the room. Then they beckoned to Mr. Starr.
"Has Prudence been worrying about something this winter?"
"Yes."
"Has she been grieving, and fretting for something?"
"Yes, she has."
"It is that young man, isn't it?" inquired the family doctor,—a Methodist "member."