Jane Gee stepped quickly into the moonlight, caught sight of something on the carpet, and uttered a fearful shriek, just as a figure passed the French window, turned back, stopped short, and began to tap.
Chapter Twenty One.
The Coming Home.
“Oh, oh, oh!” cried the girl; “it’s Mark—it’s Mark! Oh, oh, oh!” she kept on in a peculiar sob. But she tottered to the window and undid the brass latch with trembling hands, when Mark pressed the glass door open, sprang in, closed the leaf, fastened it, and, flinging one arm round the sobbing girl, clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Hold your row, you silly fool! Couldn’t you see it was me?”
“Ye-ye-yes, Mark. Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come.”
“Seems like it—squealing everybody else out of bed to come and ketch me.”
“Oh, oh, oh, Mark dear!” sobbed the girl. “Take care,” and she clung to him.