“It is a burglar,” she thought, “and he will awaken mamma.”
If she had been older, and had known more of the habits of burglars, she might have been more frightened than she was. She did not think of herself at all, however, but of her mother.
She began to reason the matter over as quickly as possible, and she made up her mind that the burglar must not be allowed to make a noise.
“I’ll go down and ask him to please be as quiet as he can,” she said to herself, “and I’ll tell him why.”
Certainly, this was a queer thing to think of doing, but I told you when I began my story that she was a queer little girl.
She slipped out of bed so quietly that she scarcely stirred the clothes, and then slipped just as quietly out of the room and down the stairs.
The filing had ceased, but she heard a sound of stealthy feet in the kitchen; and, though it must be confessed her heart beat rather faster than usual, she made her way to the kitchen and opened the door.
“Kitty,” he said, “I am obliged to go to Glasgow.”
Imagine the astonishment of that burglar when, on hearing the door open, he turned round and found himself looking at a slender little girl, in a white frilled night-gown, and with bare feet,—a little girl whose large brown eyes rested on him in a by no means unfriendly way.