Patty did not answer, but stood looking, dreamy and thoughtful.
“Are you keeping something from me?” said Janet, pettishly.
“No—no—no,” said Patty, starting, and smiling once more; “I was only dull without you. Now, let’s talk. Some one came this morning—two some ones—they were there when you saw me writing—they spoke to me, and—and—and—”
Patty’s face reddened, and then grew worn and troubled as she spoke.
“I did not like it,” she continued; “and—and—there! what stuff I am talking! We shall have no French to-day. Let’s go down, and when Monsieur comes in, get him to paint a partridge’s beak and legs, and I’ll help you to do it. There! pray, come down.”
Janet had her arm still round Patty’s waist, and for a few moments she stood gazing up at her in a strange thoughtful way. She did not speak, though; but keeping close to her visitor, walked with her to the door, muttering softly, “Patty has secrets—Patty has secrets; and I guess what it means.”
Hand-in-hand they began to descend the stairs, but only for Patty to turn back and lead the deformed girl into the room.
“What is it? what ails you?” said Janet, gazing wonderingly at her. “Are you ill? Do you feel faint?”
“No—no; it is nothing; I—I thought—I thought I had seen one of them before.”
“One of them!”