Her treasures were in her own room, and her bare feet made no sound as she crept slowly up the staircase and then down again. But when she handed the little box to the burglar her eyes were wet.
“Papa gave me the watch, and mamma gave me the locket,” she whispered, tremulously; “and the pearls were grandmamma’s, and grandmamma is in heaven.”
It would not be easy to know what the burglar thought; he looked queerer than ever. Perhaps he was not quite so bad as some burglars, and felt rather ashamed of taking her treasures from a little girl who loved other people so much better than she loved herself. But he did not touch any of papa’s belongings, and, indeed, did not remain much longer. He grumbled a little when he looked into the drawing-room, saying something to himself about “folks never ’avin’ no consideration for a cove, an’ leavin’ nothin’ portable ’andy, a expectin’ of him to carry off seventy-five pound bronze clocks an’ marble stattoos;” but though Editha was sorry to see that he appeared annoyed, she did not understand him.
After that, he returned to the pantry and helped himself to some cold game pie, and seemed to enjoy it, and then poured out a tumbler of wine, which Editha thought a great deal to drink at once.
“Yer ’e’lth, my dear,” he said, “an’ ’appy returns, an’ many on ’em. May yer grow up a hornyment to yer sect, an’ a comfort to yer respected mar an’ par.”
And he threw his head very far back, and drank the very last drop in the glass, which was vulgar, to say the least of it.
Then he took up his bundles of silver and the other articles he had appropriated, and seeing that he was going away, Editha rose from the pantry step.
“Are you going out through the window?” she asked.
“Yes, my dear,” he answered with a chuckle, “it’s a little ’abit I’ve got into. I prefers ’em to doors.”
“Well, good-by,” she said, holding out her hand politely. “And thank you, my lord.”