Accompanying Dolores to the room which Miss Martha had that day given the little girl for her own, they watched her unpack the satchel and showed kindly interest in the few keepsakes she possessed, which had belonged to her father. Viewing the faded photograph of the latter, they could trace in Dolores’ beautiful face a distinct likeness to the handsome photographed features.
“Old Rosita could teach us a lesson in neatness,” Patsy said to Bee as they entered their own room. “Emily was so busy, I told her we’d fix up our room to-day. We might as well move the table back to the center of the room. The ghost won’t walk ever again.”
“Come on, then. I’ll help you.”
Tossing her hat on the bed, Bee crossed the room and took hold with both hands of one end of the heavy mahogany center table. As she stood waiting for Patsy to come to her, her hands played absently along the table’s edge.
“Coming in a minute,” called Patsy, who had stopped to retie her white buckskin Oxford.
“Oh!”
Bee gave a sharp little scream. She had felt the wood move under her straying fingers. Something suddenly shot out from the table end. Sheer surprise caused her to take a stumbling backward step.
“Patsy, look here!” she cried out shrilly.
Instantly Patsy left off tying her shoelace and obeyed the call in a hurry. What she saw was sufficiently amazing to warrant her haste.