"There! Sleep well, my dears!" cried a scornful voice outside. A chorus of laughter followed, the footsteps died away, and all was still.
The young man rose to his feet. "The brutes!" he muttered, trembling with anger. He sprang to the door, lifted the latch, and threw his weight against it. The door did not move. His blood boiled, and again he flung himself against the door. It creaked under the shock, but the bar outside held fast.
"I heard who it was, anyhow," he said significantly. "I'll have a word to say to some of them to-morrow."
"Oh," cried the girl, "now everyone will know—and we can't even get out now."
"Don't be afraid, dear. If one way's barred, I'll soon find another."
He walked to the window, and pressed hard against the frame. The nails gave way, and the woodwork hung loose.
"There! We can get out that way now. I'll take care of the flowers—and I'll see those fellows hold their tongues—never fear."
Self-possessed and smiling, he came back to the bedside. "You poor little thing, so easily scared! Not afraid now, are you?"
"No—not now you're here again."
"Why," said he gaily, "don't you see? It had to come like this—or else—it would have been just like—any of the others!"