Her cheeks were burning; she was trembling all over. Having found the bottom step she began to mount with Greta clinging to her skirts.
The haze above inspired a little courage in the child, who, of all things, hated darkness. The blanket across the doorway of the loft had been taken down, there was nothing to veil the empty room.
“Nobody here, you see,” said Christian.
“No-o,” whispered Greta, running to the window, and clinging to the wall, like one of the bats she dreaded.
“But they have been here!” cried Christian angrily. “They have broken this.” She pointed to the fragments of a plaster cast that had been thrown down.
Out of the corner she began to pull the canvases set in rough, wooden frames, dragging them with all her strength.
“Help me!” she cried; “it will be dark directly.”
They collected a heap of sketches and three large pictures, piling them before the window, and peering at them in the failing light.
Greta said ruefully:
“O Chris! they are heavy ones; we shall never carry them, and the gate is shut now!”