Mary-Clare was arranging the couch.
“Come, dear,” she wheedled, “you tuck me up––so! I’ll bank the fire when I go and leave everything safe. A little rest and then to-morrow!––well, you’ll see that I have wings, Aunt Polly; they are only tired now––for they are new wings! I know that it must seem all madness, but it had to come.”
Aunt Polly pulled the soft covering over the huddled form––only the pale, wistful face was presently to be seen; the great, haunting eyes made Aunt Polly catch her breath. She bent and kissed the forehead.
“Poor, reaching-out child!” she whispered.
“For something that is there, Aunt Polly.”
“God knows!”
“Of course He does. That’s why He gave us the––reach. Good-night. Oh! how I love you, Aunt Polly. Good-night!”
It was Northrup’s door that had slammed shut. Aunt Polly went above, secured the innocent attic door, and then pattered down to her bedroom near Peter’s, feeling that her house, at least, was safe.
It was silent at last. Northrup, in his dark chamber, lay awake and––ashamed, though heaven was his witness that his sin was not one he had planned. Aunt Polly had been on his mind. He hated to have her down there alone. Her sitting up for him had touched and––disturbed him; he had left his door ajar.