Nancy opened her eyes sleepily.
“Where? What?” she began. “Why, Billie, what is the matter? Are you ill?” She sat up quickly, suddenly noticing that her friend’s face had turned perfectly white.
“Nancy!” gasped Billie. “Oh, Nancy! Nancy!”
“For heaven’s sake, what is it, Billie?” cried the other, reduced to an irritability from nervousness and fear, which was most unusual with her.
“Our clothes, Nancy, our dresses and coats and hats,—they are gone,” gasped Billie, “and these are left in their places.”
She held up two old, black, bedraggled skirts, one with an immense brown patch on the front and the other with a jagged tear.
“Nancy, we are among thieves. We must get away as fast as we can. In the name of goodness, get out of that bed and hurry up.”
With that, Billie stepped into the old garment and pinned it around her waist.
Nancy did not need another warning; in two minutes she stood before her friend, the very picture of a beggar girl. Even in her misery, Billie could not keep from smiling faintly at the sight of Nancy Brown, always so neatly and coquettishly dressed, in this strange attire.
“Thank heavens, they left us our pumps,” whispered the young girl, slipping on her shoes with a feeling of relief.