“The beast!”
“Well, well, as I said, my turn’ll maybe come—and yours’ll come to a certainty, Miss. Keep up your heart. Are ye feeling a bit better now?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered warmly. “It’s not so awful when one isn’t all alone.”
“Poor, pretty thing!” he said gently, “ye’ll win through yet. . . . And now we’re nearly there, and I’d best no be seen wi’ ye. We’ll get a talk at sorting-time in the morning.”
“Unless I’m forbidden the office.”
“If your uncle does that, we’ll just ha’ to find another way.”
With a hurried pat on her shoulder, he turned and went.
* * * * *
The cottage door was not locked. Having entered, Kitty stood still for a moment, listening. Silence. She turned into the kitchen to find it, as she had scarcely dared to hope, unoccupied. Her aunt and uncle had evidently retired for the night. A candle burned on the table. A jug of milk, bread and butter were there also. Somehow the sight of food stirred her sense of humour. She had read of a murderer being treated to an egg with his breakfast on the morning of his execution, and it had struck her as pathetically absurd. Never before had such an attention been paid her. She drank a little milk, because she was thirsty, and went upstairs.
On the chest of drawers in her room she found a piece of yellow wrapping paper bearing her aunt’s writing in pencil.