Bridget was nothing loath to obey. Someone scraped the bow of an old fiddle, and merry, quick music succeeded the more somber notes. Bridget's and Pat's dance was followed by many others, and the fun rose fast and furious.
By and by eleven struck from the clock in the courtyard. The boys crept down unobserved to the shores of the lake, and the rest of the party went to bed.
Bridget had forgotten all her sorrows in a sound sleep. In her healthy young slumbers she had not even room for dreams. A smile lingered round her pretty lips, her dark curly lashes lay heavily on her rose-tinted cheeks.
"Bang! bang!" There came some pummels at her door, then the handle was turned, and muffled feet stepped as noiselessly as they could across the old and creaking boards.
"You wake her, Gerry," said Pat.
"I can't—I don't like to!" said Gerry, with a sob in his throat.
"Well, then, I will. What a little coward you are! Why can't you control yourself? What is the good of being in such a beastly funk? It will be all right when Biddy knows. I say, Biddy! Biddy, wake! How soundly she sleeps! Let's strike a match, and flash it into her eyes, Gerry."
"No, no; Uncle Dennis will hear us," said Gerry, his teeth chattering more than ever.
"Let's pull her, then," said Pat. "Let's give a tug at her hair. Oh, I say, Biddy, you might wake and help a fellow."
These last almost wailing words penetrated the sleeper's dreams. She opened her eyes with a start, and said aloud: