The little figure came forward. The moonlight fell upon the upturned, flower-like face. “Please will you take me to sleep with you to-night?” she said.
Strength came back to Frances. The instinct to protect awoke within her, reviving her. She got up and went to the child.
“What made you come to me here, Rosebud?” she said.
“I thought you called me,” Ruth answered. “But perhaps it was a dream. I thought you were frightened, as you were that night at the Stones. You are very cold. Are you frightened?”
“I have been,” Frances said.
Ruth pressed close to her. “Has someone been unkind to you? Is it—is it Uncle Arthur?”
But Frances could not answer her. She was conscious of a weight of tears at her heart to which she dared not give vent.
“Shall we go upstairs?” said Ruth, with soft fingers entwined in hers. “And perhaps you will be able to sleep.”
She yielded to the child’s guidance as she had yielded before without hesitation or misgiving. They went out into the passage. But here a sudden sound made her pause—it was the opening of the door that led into the garden.
Ruth pulled at her hand. “It is only Grandpa. He is always late to bed.”